


Bullets in the Water

by MyPinkCactus



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bisexuality, Explicit Language, F/M, Gangsters, M/M, Major Original Character(s), New York City, Non-Graphic Violence, Oliver is mentioned but not present in this, Poker, Police, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29000289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyPinkCactus/pseuds/MyPinkCactus
Summary: Elio, also known as The Gambler, seeks to fill the void left by old unhealed wounds from his past by means of unorthodox and sometimes outright dangerous methods. His hazardous proclivities will soon lead him to a precipice from which he could easily plunge into darkness. In a perilous, cold and nocturnal New York, Elio will find himself, and those he loves, threatened by the maneuvers of a perfidious crook. Will a dangerous pact with the police offer an escape? Or will he have to risk it all at a crucial poker game?
Relationships: Elio Perlman/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 8





	1. COVER

**Author's Note:**

> So here I am again with a new story! I'm super excited about this one! I've been working on it for years, and after a hiatus I decided to pick it up again and rewrite it adapting it to an alternate CMBYN universe. This is quite different from anything else I've written for this fandom, so I hope you guys are up to reading a thriller-like story and (hopefully!!) enjoy it as much as I enjoyed putting it together! ♥️
> 
>  **Important notes:** There will be a bunch of original characters plus well-known and beloved characters from the novel. Yet, this is NOT a love story, and while Oliver is mentioned as a past lover, he's neither present nor relevant to the development of any of these events… If Elio/Oliver is what you are looking for, I wrote a [series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1317551) all about them that you might want to check if you haven't already!
> 
> And as always, I cannot go without thanking [isitandwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder) for always being there and helping me with the translation; I learn so much with your suggestions and corrections!!!!
> 
> I also want to mention **elisendi!** Your little reviews have been so much fun to read and thanks for the summary! (Kat, too!) I'm so bad at it!!


	2. GAMBLER




	3. ONE

When you speak from the heart of this city you might think that you’re doing so from the center of the world, in the paradise of those who dare to dream—a place longed for even by those who have never set foot here. The capital of a thousand faces in which time moves forward without respite, but the ghosts remain rooted in its dark alleys. An island woven of steel and built on the ambition of men…

But make no mistake, this is not going to be an essay about New York City or those who live here—nor am I sure that the conclusion of this tale will be to your liking. It’s not something I can say with certainty because, as I write these lines, I’m fully aware that the end has not yet come. Even if it’s close.

But if you'll allow me, I'll ask you a favor.

Yes, I'm speaking to _you_. I don't know who you are or how you got here. If you are someone I know, then I need no introduction and I apologize in advance. If you're not, for the moment you just need to know that my name is Elio Perlman—you’ll learn more about me gradually, don’t worry. It's clear that _something_ has led you to check this old green notebook with more curiosity than it deserves. You have also troubled yourself to take it in your hands and brush the thick, water-stained pages with your fingertips. I know this because I did the exact same thing. You've probably sat down to try and decipher this tortuous calligraphy, molded by my own diligence. If so, then I ask you to please don't leave. Imagining you're here will make me feel less alone, and who knows, maybe by the time we get to the end, all this will even make some sense?

But I have to be honest, I don't know where the hell to start, and I know that's a problem because beginnings are fundamental and every story needs a starting point. But this one is complicated.

My good friend Barney, a sturdy black man, over six feet tall but with the light heart of a butterfly, says that nothing happens by chance and that we are all puppets of our own destiny.

Let me make one thing clear to you before we continue: I'm not devout, nor am I superstitious, I didn't even like Santa Claus when I was a child. I couldn’t understand how everyone could trust a man who snuck into other people's houses while they were all asleep. I didn't. So I'd stay up all night hugging my _Super Soaker 50_ ready to fire if necessary. What I’m trying to say with this is that I have no doubt that it’s us who pave our own path. But sometimes, on nights when we'd meet on the docks to get drunk like we weren't going to see the light of a new day, and I'd hear one of his cheap alcohol-scented existentialist speeches, Barney would make me think.

What if it was true? What if there was someone out there, in an alternative universe invisible to our archaic eyes, with enough power to determine our fate? What if we are just actors in the service of a story over which we have no control?

If so, then rest assured that whoever is in charge of my divine judgment is a sadistic son of a bitch.

It usually wasn't something I thought about much, anyway, especially since the next day, drowning in the mother of all hangovers (and no matter how or when, it was always worse than the previous one), it was more than enough trying to link the series of events that had led me back to the couch in my apartment in one piece.

Luck, maybe. I'll give you that. But luck is fleeting. Even in gambling, you can't rely on luck alone. You have to be clever and not impatient. Concentration and good instinct are crucial. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I'm good at this, sitting at a table surrounded by people with more arrogance than skill and showing them that in card games having a good hand is not enough. Aggressiveness, courage and a fearless attitude, that's the way to go. Yet, I’m not very good at translating these principles into my private life, which I see crumbling like a house of cards whipped by the putrid breath of an envious and resentful shadow. Moreover, I've been having some weird feelings for a few days now. I haven't talked about this with anyone; let alone Barney (that would be like offering wings to a scorpion). You'll be the first to know about all this. I'm trying to find a somewhat reasonable explanation: anxiety, perhaps? Had madness finally managed to find a spot with great views inside my mind? Or was it the recurring alcoholic intoxications that had made an irreparable dent in my already non-existent reasoning? Could it be the drugs?

I rule out the last option because it has been a long time since I’ve consumed anything that could be considered psychedelic. I've even contemplated quitting smoking. And while alcohol isn’t something I say no too easily, I don't remember a significant binge since months ago when Barney decided, overnight, to throw himself into the arms of the teetotaler. So I only have two options left, and they both terrify me equally.

A couple of days ago, for example, I remembered something Barney told me the day we met for no apparent reason. Unable to articulate a coherent response that could justify the pitiful state I had found myself in, Barney suggested that if I couldn't say it, I should write it down. A few hours after that evocation, I found myself rummaging through my closet, in one of those impulses that whip you like an unexpected gust of wind, looking for I didn't-quite-know-what until I came across this green notebook. The same I’m writing in. The same one you're holding now. It was next to an empty shoebox, in a corner, lost and abandoned, and I had no idea how it got there. I remember my hands were shaking when I picked it up. It wasn't new, that was obvious to the naked eye, but the pages were blank, waiting for someone to scribble on them.

I've already told you that I'm not a superstitious guy; in fact, it could be said that my skepticism is bordering on pedantry. I'm not hiding it. But I do admit that I almost peed myself that day.

It was an overreaction, of course it was, a simple coincidence. The notebook surely belonged to the former tenant, little inclined to writing; that much was clear. But the feeling that ran through my whole body and the cold sweat that sprinkled my forehead were very real and hard to ignore.

Someone like Barney would say that this was a sign, a kind of premonition, and if he went into doomsday mode (which was most of the time lately): a bad omen. The rational side that still subsisted in some nook of my brain matter would consider, however, that in my particular case, all this was nothing more than a natural and proportional response to the frequency with which I got into trouble. In fact, two days before I found this notebook—by pure and inexorable chance—I had been beaten to a pulp. Barney, who, as you may have noticed, has become the sane voice in my conscience, had been warning me for quite a long time to stop attending these kinds of circles, "You've got an incredible talent there piling up, why are you wasting it like this?"

But it's so easy to win that it's irresistible to me.

Jamie gave me the tip, a stubby guy with a perpetually angry expression on his face that clashed diametrically with his good people skills. He had long since stopped organizing these things, he wanted to get away from this rowdy world, and so he had decided to move to Queens. But from time to time he rented out the basement of his humble bar for a sum of money not particularly generous but adequately suggestive. "I have to pay the bills," he’d argue.

He always called me when there was a Field of Roses as he called them, which were just gatherings organized by the kind of ungodly idiots that Barney advised me to avoid. There was a Field of Roses that night, and I didn't blink twice before accepting the invitation. Not only because of Jamie's insistence who, as always, spoke while enthusiastically sucking on one of his blue lollipops, but because this time I really needed the money.

Winning was no effort. Indeed, it could be said that the game had lacked any hint of emotion or intrigue and, if it hadn't been for what was at stake, an unnecessary waste of gas. But even though Jamie had warned me about Big Muzzy, I hadn’t expected that he would be such a sore loser.

“He's a bit of a beast, isn't he? They don't call him Big Muzzy for nothing," Jaime said.

“Really? And here I was thinking that I was going to find someone green and fluffy.”

Jamie laughed loudly as he offered me some ice.

Jamie's laughter was peculiar: loud and precise, as though it perfectly marked the tempo of each breath, and he used to insert it without apparent criteria into any conversation.

“He wanted to be an Olympic champion, and from what I’ve heard he had a good chance, but he got kicked off the team for bad behavior or something. Who's surprised? Now, he likes to play cards, you see.” There was that laugh again. “Someone told me that in his spare time he takes care of old people, can you imagine?” He puffed his chest as though he was about to have another go at that rattle in his lungs, but he sighed kindly and shook his head. “Want a lollipop?”

Jamie could frighten anyone with that laugh if you didn't know him personally, like the trademark of the most sordid caricature of an '80s movie villain; it also didn't disturb a single wrinkle on his annoyed expression. He looked like an undecided psychopath. But I appreciated him, especially his sense of humor and his infamous blue lollipops.

An hour after the well-deserved victory, I was in my car, a second-hand Ford Focus, with my face burning from the blows and the taste of blood still lingering on my palate. Nonetheless, euphoria rushed through my veins like an electric current. Yes, I had taken a beating, but also the pot.

Yet no delusion is immortal, and this one lasted as long as it took me to notice the two lights reflected with irritating persistence in my rearview mirror. Not that I expected to be alone on the road along the West coast of Rockaway Park, but it wasn't a very busy night at this time of year.

Soon, it became clear that that car had no intention of leaving me alone with my brief moment of joy. It was close. Too close. I rolled down the window and waved my hand, asking for it to move ahead if they were in such a hurry, but nothing happened—a stubborn one, I thought. I sped up to leave them behind but it got close once more. We repeated this unproductive exchange of accelerations until it was clear that my new traveling companion was not going to let go of me. So I did the next stupid thing I could think of: I hit the brake, stopping my car abruptly in the middle of the dark, icy road. I saw the lights zigzagging in the night as the other car maneuvered sharply in an attempt to avoid the inevitable crash, which caused it to lose control and roll over onto its shoulder.

Then there was just disturbing silence.

I held on to the wheel for a while, waiting just to see if the driver would get out of the car, but no one did. So I opened the glove box and pulled out a small gun.

Don't look at me like that. I'm not that kind of person. It wasn't a weapon as such; it was actually a lighter that Barney had given me but, of course, only I knew that.

I approached the car with scrupulous discretion; the night was cold but calm, only the murmur of the sea could be heard in the distance. The car had miraculously landed on its four wheels again. Inside, there only seemed to be a stir in the driver's seat, so I pulled hard on the door until I managed to open it. The driver was a young boy, not even in his twenties, and except for a few minor cuts and the obvious shock he seemed fine.

“Why are you following me?” I blurted out.

The boy babbled incomprehensibly.

“No! No! No! Please!” He cried, raising his hands when I put the gun to his temple.

“Why are you following me?”

“I… I… please… help me… my legs…”

“We'll take care of that later. Now, tell me: why were you following me?”

“No… I… Oh, my God! I don't think I can breathe.”

“Answer me!”

“Okay! Okay! They… they just told me to keep an eye on you.”

“Who?”

“Big Muzzy and his boys.”

“His boys? Who the hell does he think he is, a gangster?”

“I… I know nothing… I think I'm getting dizzy.”

“What's your name?”

The refusal was already taking shape on his lips when he tried to turn around to look at me for the first time, so I pressed the gun harder.

“Christopher! Christopher! My name’s Christopher.”

“Do you know my name?”

“No. Yes. No… well, I know they call you Gambler… please, don't shoot me; they said they'd pay me to follow you and see what you did with the money.”

I felt strangely sorry for him.

“Help me, please… I think I'm bleeding to death.”

“Don't be so dramatic, you're fine… Where's your phone?”

He made a gesture to point to his right trouser pocket. I reached for it and pulled the phone out.

“Password,” I said, holding the screen in front of his face.

Christopher hesitated for a second, but ended up putting in the key with an air of resignation. I checked the last few calls. The first on the list was Big Muzzy, but there were also other names I knew: B. Martinez, Cripple Bob and Willy-Willy. However, I was totally taken aback when I saw The Irishman. I took a quick look at Christopher, who was struggling to get his legs out from under the dashboard. He was really just a kid who was probably just looking for some attention—to feel useful and relevant. What was a sleazeball like him doing with The Irishman's number? Not even I, who was digging into the most infamous holes in New York City, had seen The Irishman in person. And, of course, I wish that would continue to be the case.

The rumble of a car engine burst through the foggy trance in which we had plunged. I quickly saved some of the numbers and hid the gun while dialing 911 from Christopher's phone.

As soon as the car slowed down and stopped, Christopher started to yell for help, screaming like a pitchman.

“Everything okay?” asked a middle-aged man leaning out the passenger side.

“Yes, sir, don't worry. I'm talking to the emergency services right now. The guy's fine, he's just in shock.”

The man glanced at the car with his hairy brows struggling to meet in the middle of his forehead, and then he laid his eyes on me again.

“What about you?”

I was about to ask him what he meant when I realized that my face probably looked like a Picasso painting. I let him know that I was in perfect health with all the patience and good syntax that the consequences of what I was already feeling was going to be a very long night allowed me to gather.

The man nodded slowly, more as a form of self-conviction than to prove that he had believed anything I had told him, and continued on his way.

I went back to the car as soon as we were alone and dropped Christopher's phone in his lap. He whimpered as he wriggled like a clueless little fish.

“Can you stop? You'll end up really hurting yourself. The ambulance is on its way," I squatted by the door. "Listen, Chris, I'm sure you're a good guy, but you have to be aware that the people you hang out with aren't. You're young and naive. So was I, believe me—well, actually, I still am, but that’s a different story. What I mean is, I need you to let Big Muzzy know that if he wants his money back, I dare him to play another round. I'm sure he'll find a way to get in touch with me. But if he refuses, then tell him not to fuck with me, okay?” I got up again. “You'll be fine.”

I patted him on the shoulder to say goodbye, which Christopher responded to with a pitiful howl, and returned to my car, sinking into the driver's seat. Suddenly I was feeling very tired. Maybe Barney was right and it was time to call it quits? Barney, who would probably vomit a rosary of expletives, each one uglier than the last, as soon as he saw me.

With the gun still in my hand, I lit a cigarette, and took a long, intense, desperate drag, until I felt the cough coming on. If this was going to be the last packet, I was going to at least enjoy it; that poisoned smoke was all I needed at that moment.

The shrill of the bell announcing a new client was nothing compared to Barbara’s choked scream. She hurried out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on her floral apron and loudly demanding Barney's attention (who was not in sight) in a progression of stentorian and rather persuasive squeals. I had barely settled my buttocks on one of the benches in the Nichols' restaurant (soft as velvet but in need of new upholstery) when Barbara had already grabbed my head with both of her hands.

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, examining my face carefully, as a mother would do with the most beloved of her kids. I had tried to clean myself up before I showed up here, but to no avail it seemed.

"What's happened to you? What’ve you gotten yourself into, now? Barney! You're bleeding. Oh, boy. Oh, boy. Let me see. Let me see. Oh, Elio! Why’re you always doing this to yourself? When will it be enough? When? Barney!”

She spun one sentence with the next, hardly breathing, while turning my skull from side to side and up and down to make sure that not the slightest scratch escaped her particular medical examination.

“Don't worry," I said, "it's nothing, really.”

“Shut up. Barney!”

“I'm coming, Jesus!” Barney appeared in the corridor leading to the toilets and the little office, holding a newspaper under his arm while he staggered, fumbling with his belt buckle. “Can’t a man do his business with some—for heavens’ sake!”

“Go back in there and get me the first aid kit," Barbara urged him.

Barney stood for a moment, still as a statue, looking at me with alert but tired eyes. Then he turned and walked away down the corridor, muttering in his hoarse voice, and I was glad that I didn’t understand what was coming out of his mouth. By the time he returned the bad mood had gripped his face like a limpet.

“What happened?” Barbara was asking again as she applied the gauze.

“That stings…”

“Of course it stings. Now, speak.”

“I've been mugged.”

“Sure…” Barney snorted.

“Barney.” Barbara snapped.

“I'm serious," I continued, "I was walking along quietly when a group of drunken men started chasing me and—”

“Look at him! He shows up here like this and has the nerve to lie like a rug.”

“You,” Barbara said, pointing at her husband with one of her long fingers, "go behind the bar and take care of this place.”

“There's no one here!” Barney protested, opening his arms to emphasize the evidence that the restaurant was, indeed, empty.

Barbara offered him one of _those_ looks that didn’t ask for a reply and Barney got up with exhaustion, showing that the years (and a life of excesses) were not passing in vain for him.

“And you," Barbara said, turning to me, "don't you dare lie to my face, boy. Look at you." She shook her head, making disapproving sounds with her tongue.

“Seriously, I'm fine.”

“Don't talk back to me. I swear, if you show up at my restaurant looking like a mime from hell again, I will kick your ass like a mashed potato. Is that clear?”

I loved her.

Just over five feet of compassion and moodiness; a woman not easily intimidated by anything or anyone, and who was the muscle of will that kept that family together. Life, and a shifty society, had not treated the Nichols particularly well, and yet they had welcomed me, and my ability to get entangled in very unorthodox matters, as one of their own.

After some ice, chlorhexidine and the occasional comfort kiss on my forehead, I smelled a delicious chicken soup of which Barbara said, “Would bring anyone back to life.” Barney was sitting opposite me, watching with those pitch-black eyes, arms crossed, making a colossal show of his pout.

“You're playing again, aren't you?” he asked.

“It was nothing, Barney. Really, don't make a big deal out of it.”

“Nothing? Have you even looked at yourself? And you think I haven't noticed how you do _thisss_ with your lips every time you move? You should see a doctor.”

“It was an overreaction considering what was at stake, it needs to be said, but it's done, let it go. My God, this soup is delicious. Barbara, if you weren't married to this fustilarian, I'd propose to you right here.”

“Fustilarian? What century have you escaped from?”

“I'm doing my best to use a vocabulary appropriate for your age, old man.”

Barney rolled his eyes but I saw the smile that he tried to hide out of pride.

“Did someone talk about marriage?” Barbara asked as she came out of the kitchen with another plate in her hand.

“This fool wants to challenge me to a duel. Seems he wasn't beaten up enough already and thinks he's Errol Flynn now.”

“Did you know there’s the rumor that he had an affair with Truman Capote?” I said.

“If you used that sponge of a brain for something really productive…”

“I'm afraid this sponge I have for a brain only retains insignificant and useless information, nothing that can take me too far.”

“This continuous tug-of-war of yours gives me a headache, I swear. Don't you ever get tired?” Barbara said, coming closer and pointing her chin in Barney's direction. “You better start moving that ass, don't think I've forgotten all the work that's waiting for you in the office." Then she turned to me. “Here, rice pudding: _arroz con leche_. It's Julieta's recipe.”

“You spoil him too much," Barney protested, but Barbara disappeared back into the kitchen, disregarding his words as she waved a hand in the air.

“This restaurant will be our fucking ruin,” Barney grumbled, taking my glass of Coke and drinking it down with one gulp.

“It's not decaf…”

Barney slammed the glass back on the table, worn-out and at least four years older all of a sudden.

“Hey… I'm sure everything will be fine,” I said.

He shook his head, his gaze and his thoughts clearly lost elsewhere.

I wanted to reassure him, but if he knew what I had _really_ done that night he would make such a scene that I was convinced half the neighborhood would come out and I’d probably lose the desire to keep playing cards.

“Tell me something, how is it possible that you’ve known Julieta for… three years, already? And you still haven't introduced me to her," I said, hoping that the change of subject would have an effect on his dark mood.

“Yeah, I wonder that, too. Carefulness, I guess.”

“I don't think I've done anything too obscene in my life to earn that reputation.”

Barney raised a knowing eyebrow just as Grace Nichols walked in. Barney turned to look at his daughter while I enjoyed the view. Grace was thirty, two years older than me, and the most beautiful woman I had ever met. She was a film aficionada, but despite the obvious, her dedication and study of cinema was more aimed at getting behind the camera than in front of it—a pity for the viewer, for sure. It amazed me to think that Barney would’ve had any part in the creation of such a beautiful and intelligent creature, and so I let him know whenever the occasion presented itself, while he threatened to break my jaw one of these days.

Grace greeted her father with a kiss, but her face mutated into something like horror as her eyes met mine.

“Oh my God, Elio! What happened to you?”

“I've had an accident.”

Grace dropped besides me into the little space left on the bench. The brush of her thigh against mine was the best thing that had happened to me in the last twenty-four hours.

“Really? When? How did it happen?” she asked, stroking my bruises gently. Across the table I could hear Barney snorting through his nose. “Does it hurt?”

“Very much…” I said, adopting the whiniest of whiny tones.

“Oh, please!” Barney exclaimed. “He's perfectly fine. Grace, can you go to the kitchen and see what the hell your mother's doing? That woman never checks her watch, and it's time to close this cave.”

Before she got up, Grace put her lips gently over the biggest bruise on my right cheek.

“You won't be able to protect her forever, Barney,” I said when we were alone again.

“I know, but at least I'll do my best to keep her away from guys like you.”

“Guys like me? I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Anyway, Grace is a grown woman who knows exactly what she's doing and who she's doing it with.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that you should trust her, Barney Nichols.”

I didn't blame Barney for being overprotective of Grace; she wasn't the Nichols' firstborn, but she was the only one they had left. I didn't get to know William Nichols, because by the time Barney and I crossed paths, drugs had already taken over that boy's life and he had ended up in a filthy alley. That was two years before Barney had the misfortune to run into me.

“I trust her, of course I do," he said. “It's you I don't trust.”

We both laughed.

I looked at the clock on the wall; I was really sorry but it was time for me to go. I got up, pretending it didn’t hurt my bruised ribs, and set out to pick up the dishes.

“Leave that, I'll take care of it,” Barney said. “You're leaving?”

“Yes, I have some things to do, and it’s getting late.”

“I want to give you something I have in the office first.”

“Okay. I'll wait outside, I need some fresh air.”

I shouted goodbye to Barbara and Grace, and went out. Neither the walls of the surrounding buildings nor the parka that had cost me three hundred dollars, and that I kept as if my life depended on it, were enough to protect me from the cold. I felt the air cutting like knives into my cheeks. Even the occasional shy snowflake escaped from the black clouds, which could only be sensed above the dull city sky. Barney cursed when he joined me, making it clear that I was not imagining the bad weather.

“I thought you were working hard to accumulate that fat in your belly for some kind of survival purposes,” I said.

“Fuck off, will you? Here.” He held out a hand to show me a small piece of cardboard that had seen better days, but on it was printed a beautiful illustration of Batman.

“A trading card? What the hell do I want this for?”

“It's not for you, you ingrate. I found it by the trash and thought you could give it to that neighbor kid of yours who's obsessed with superheroes.”

“If I give this to Vimini, I'll never get her off my back. And she's already a pain in the ass with no incentive whatsoever.”

I put the trading card inside my pocket anyway, then pulled out a cigarette and held it in my mouth while I searched for a lighter and pretended to ignore Barney's brash stare.

“I thought you were quitting?” he said.

“I am, but it's a slow process, you know.”

“Sure…”

“Look, Barney, you know I love you, but I’m not in the mood for a lecture. And I mean it.”

“I'm not giving you a lecture.”

“Good. Because I don't want to have to remind you how many times I've had to drag your drunken ass back to your apartment door…”

Barney looked away and stayed silent for a moment.

“I'm not your father, Elio, but I am your friend, and I care. We all do.”

“I know.”

“You know _what—_ ” His voice broke for a split second.

“I know…”

Barney took a deep breath.

“I'm going back inside, this cold is even more insufferable than you. Take care." He turned to the door, but before entering, he pointed at me with a threatening air. “And stay away from my daughter.”

That joke never seemed to get old—a joke to me, for sure, not so much for Barney. He had been warning me almost since I met him seven years ago, when he was a janitor at the Courant Institute at New York University. At that time, I was still a young man with some intellectual ambitions; in fact, my dream had been to study at Juilliard. Music had been an innate passion since my early childhood, but when the time had come to put a foot inside the train to maturity, I‘d had an irrational panic attack thinking about what was waiting for me in the future. So I ended up enrolling in Mathematical Sciences at Courant. It wasn't entirely unreasonable, after all, math and music went hand in hand. I was pretty good at calculus and in a capitalist society I would definitely get more out of it.

That first year had been unforgettable; not only had I achieved one of the best averages of the last decade, but I also thought I had met the love of my life.

Oliver Gitelman.

Does that surprise you? Don't be. I’ve always been a sexually curious man, and meeting Oliver had been such an intoxicating experience of self-discovery that I’d spent those months we were together as if on a sedative pink cloud. I’d smiled like a fool all the time, daydreaming a long, perennial life next to him. I’d even imagined what our home would look like. We’d have two dogs we would adopt and shower with all our kindness and love, and we would buy the little house that sits on a cliff in the Montauk moorlands and that had me obsessed since I could remember.

Bless my lost innocence.

Of course none of this ever happened, as you may have guessed on your own, and not because we were too young or had academic matters to attend to, at least on my part. Oliver graduated from the College of Arts and Science that same year, and on that very day, amidst the excited congratulations that were thrown at him; he announced that he was returning to New England, where his family lived. His father, a man with a lot of money and an appointment book full of high-profile names, had pulled some strings and gotten him a tenure at the university there.

Clouds of incomprehension fell on me. I didn't understand why this news—which didn't sound like a last-minute decision—only came to my attention at that specific moment. Digesting the shock as best I could, I thought it wasn't the end of the world, that we could still make it work. New York and New England weren't that far apart, after all. But before I could verbalize my concerns about the dilemma that lay ahead, Oliver started to talk about a girl called Connie Brown, another heiress of old money, with whom he had been in an on and off relationship for years, and with whom he had reconnected a few months earlier.

First news to me.

But apparently their families were pretty aware and happy; and with eyes veiled by the green color of dollar bills, they saw perfect sense in a public engagement between the two. I remember wondering if we had suddenly returned to the era of Feudalism, but the tight jeans that Oliver wore, and which fitted with meridian precision all the strategic areas of his anatomy, told me that we were still in the century of mass evolution, and Oliver was bleeding my heart out, shriveling it into a raisin.

Dejected and emptied inside like a turkey, I faced defeat and break-up as only idiots do: letting myself be rammed, literally and metaphorically, by all that affliction. The world became dark and gloomy, a grimy scale of greys that stuck to my senses like gum to hair. My learning achievements and grades dropped considerably. I isolated myself from everything and everyone, and I began to frequent rather shady places. That's when I started flirting with drugs. Nothing to worry about, really, I didn’t become an addict overnight, but I resorted to them because it was the quickest way out. As a result, my personality turned increasingly sour. I would spend my days dropping into classes terribly stoned, engaging in absurd arguments with anyone who was willing to replicate my impertinences, or wandering the halls like a zombie.

One of those days, I was feeling especially bad, very dizzy. Barely standing, I went into the toilets and put my head into one of the sinks.

I don't remember much else.

When I came to my senses, I was in a small room with a black man who seemed to be the size of the closet. He was offering me water while he repeated over and over again, "It's okay, boy, it's okay." When I felt a little better, he told me that he was attending his daily bowel demands when he heard a loud noise. He found me on the tiled floor, lying in my own vomit. He was about to call an ambulance, but when he saw that I was still half conscious, he thought better of it and took me to his booth.

“While you were mumbling a lot of nonsense, I took the liberty of taking a look at your student ID and then at the files—and let's keep this between you and me, okay? Because, technically, I shouldn't be sticking my nose in here." He picked up a folder he had on his desk. “Elio Perlman…” He let out an amused whistle. “Your first year's grades are incredible. What happened to you, boy?”

“Someone broke my heart.”

He burst out laughing. “Yes, women have that ability.”

“It was a man.”

He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. “Oh, well… I guess men do too, then—or even worse, if you think about it. Women at least have enough guile to send one off with elegance and a smile, but a man? We're simpler than a spring, boy. So, if a man has fooled you that bad, I'm afraid you're more of an idiot than you look. But leaving aside the dogmatism of the arts of love, I’m more concerned about that shit that I’m sure you’re doing. Listen," he said before I could protest at such accusations. “I know first-hand how this works, and I didn't call the ER because you were still lucid enough to spell your full name. Impressive, I must say. But rest assured, if I had, you would’ve been in for a real treat. So let me tell you right now that if I ever see you show up here in that state again, I will take you to the dean myself.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“Barney Nichols: janitor by trade but a Brandy lover by vocation," he said, holding out one of his huge hands. “Would you like something to eat? Yeah, sure you do, you need to put something solid in that stomach of yours, my friend.”

From that moment on, Barney became the friend, the brother and the father I never had. But my interest in the exact sciences was buried in a pit I couldn't return to even to look at. So I got a low-paying job at a bar called Bill & Buster. It wasn't far from campus, so during my free time I kept Barney some company. We'd lock ourselves in his booth and drink beer in secret while he told me the latest student/teacher gossip. And let me tell you, it had nothing to envy even the best soap opera. That's how I found out that Oliver and Connie's wedding had been rushed forward. Some evil tongues said it was because he had gotten her pregnant and that was not a good look for two conservative families with a reputation to protect. The other story—my favorite—was that Oliver was caught making out with a boy outside a bar, and before the rumor got around like a hare in disarray, they wanted to drown it in the noise of an event full of satin skirts and fanfare.

"I'm sure you're relieved not to be with that hillbilly anymore, right?" Barney said.

“It's possible.”

“Well, let's celebrate.”

These reunions helped me to redirect the path of self-destruction I had taken, and to progressively give up some of those bad habits I had acquired. I even moved on when it came to my love life, experimenting with new relationships, albeit short ones, with both boys and girls. I was not too fussy. Barney was somewhat perplexed by my sexual adventures but he, better than anyone, knew that life was too short for us to squeeze out fifty percent of the population and thus halve our chances of success. He’d shrug his shoulders as he mumbled, "What do I know, I guess I'm too old for this," and proceeded to offer me a bottle of beer in return.

During my shift, it was Barney who came up to Bill & Buster. There he'd settle down at the bar and order one beer after another, which he'd change for shots of Brandy on Wednesdays. The special day. The poker day. We'd corner ourselves at the bar and watch the group of men that came to play cards every week. Same day, same time, same table. They didn't play for large amounts of money, obviously just for fun, but it entertained us to make our own bets on who would end up paying for the round that night. That's how my interest in cards simmered. I learned a lot just by watching them play; I focused on studying their movements and discovering their tricks, their tics… I even foresaw many of the hands.

“Are you really able to count the cards?” Barney asked me one day, quite awestruck.

The group of men had also noticed what I was doing, and one night they invited me to sit with them. At first, I refused the offer because I had never played before, but their insistence finally convinced me.

I fleeced them.

Hours later, while I was cleaning up before closing, one of them approached me.

“You've blown me away, boy, you're very good,” he said offering me his hand. “My name is Jamie Campbell. Have you really never played before?”

“No. I've never been interested.”

His thundering laughter almost made me jump back.

“You’re killing me! You got a business card or something?”

“A business card? Man, I work as a bartender in this sleazy place.”

“I see. Yes. Of course. Well, that's all right, we'll talk next week; I have a situation on my hands that might interest you. Here, have a lollipop. See you, _Gambler_.”

Barney watched and listened from across the bar, pressing his lips against the rim of his glass to taste every last drop of alcohol that might be left. I joined him, pouring the last drink of the night. Barney took out his wallet and placed a bill on the lacquered wood.

“Save that money, it's on them today.”

“Elio…” His tone had become singularly paternalistic and that caught me a bit off guard. “Be careful with what you do.”

“Don't worry about it. Hey, I see you got a picture of a girl in your wallet. Who is she, you naughty old man?”

“Watch your tongue. She's my daughter, Grace.”

“Are you kidding me? When you told me you had a daughter, I imagined a toddler or something… She's _very_ pretty. When are you going to introduce me to her?”

“Never.”


	4. TWO

Lita hummed with approval as I added the earnings of that night to the already existing pile of money scattered over the old quilt—it was better not to think about the mileage that piece of cloth carried on the back of its faded pattern.

“This is a lot of money,” she said. It was. “If Bob finds out I've been keeping all this here he'll cut my head off.”

“But you're much more clever than Bob.”

“More clever, perhaps, but with far less power.”

Lita bent forward, bringing her painfully young, withered face close to the bills and wrinkled her nose.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Smelling it.”

“And?”

“As expected. It smells of misery, like all the money that comes into this place.”

“Money always conceals misery.”

“Says the rich boy… You know I could’ve at least gone to Nepal with all this, right?”

“And why didn't you?”

“Because I know how to keep my word," she said, showing me the empty palm of her hand cheerfully.

I smiled back at her and handed her the two rolls I had promised in exchange for that favor.

Lita was the diminutive of Lolita, which in turn was the short version of _Ma Lolita,_ a term that was coined by her clients with a lousy accent but with such determined persistence that it had ended up nullifying her real name. In fact, I had no idea what her real name was. Nor had I ever tried to get it out of her, and Lita wasn't one to talk about her past. You could say that, except that she was French, I hardly knew anything about Lita's life before she became Lita. Nor how she had come to the city, nor when she had done so, let alone how a girl who, after the wear and tear of a life full of her own and other people's abuse, had ended up working part-time between the streets and this stinking brothel.

“Don't do that, Gambler," she said as she stood up after hiding her little loot under a loose piece of wood beneath the bed.

“Do what?”

“That pity look.”

“There's no pity look.”

“Yes, there is. You don't notice it because you're too busy with your patronizing bullshit, but I'm no idiot. I don't need your charity, let alone that crap about the knight riding his white horse to the rescue of the damsel in distress.”

“I don't think I look like a knight.”

“No, you don't. Especially tonight.”

“And I don't think you're a damsel in distress either.”

“Of course I'm in distress, but you know pretty damn well that I'm not a damsel. So, don't take on that role, Gambler, it doesn't suit you, and it’s enough with the pricks who satisfy their desires, forcing us into submission as if we were their fucking slaves. Then there are those who see this as a business transaction and fuck with the same emotion they get a soda from a vending machine—and finally, the _romantics_ who obsess with the idea of having a real relationship. Those are the worst; believe me, because in their fixation they end up becoming stalkers with a goal in mind and a lot of blackmail to offer. I'm so _sick_ of men. I tolerate you because you're cute and the only one who comes up here who seems to shower at least once a day.”

Her French accent, of which there was hardly any trace left, would come out whenever her nerves twitched.

“Why don't you just take that money you're hiding and run away?”

“I don't have much yet—I have to make sure I can go far away so that Bob won’t find me, and have at least enough to survive until I find a job that doesn't require me to spread my legs. And you should go now, no matter how much you all think your cocks have soothing powers, no john lasts so long, and I don't want anyone coming up here and catching us with all this in our hands. That would be a disaster for my plans.”

Lita opened my backpack and helped me put all the money inside.

“Have you thought about where you'll go when you have everything you need?” I asked.

“I'll go back to France, to _La Côte Bleue_ —or maybe Spain? I don't know. Actually, no, I haven't thought about it yet. That's a problem, isn't it? I should start planning… I want it to be a beautiful place, where there's water, lots of water, and sport a golden tan under a white dress that personifies the purity I've never had…”

Lita laughed, as though she herself believed that all this was just nonsense, but it was easy to sense a glimmer of new hope in her gloomy eyes, perpetually framed by greasy eyeliner.

I hugged her, as I always did, and she gave herself to that honest embrace probably not even realizing the way she was letting her guard down.

I had met Lita the same way I met almost everyone in this city: being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Listen, I don't want you to get the wrong impression of me but… yes, once again someone had taken his lack of skill in gambling personally and then had taken it out on me. It wasn't as merciless a reaction as Big Muzzy's, but it was bad enough to leave me breathless and stranded in some dark, cold spot in Hunts Point.

“Did you get lost on your way to daycare, boy?”

Those were the first words I heard her say, with a strong—bordering on excessive—French accent. At first I only saw her feet in ridiculously high, visibly uncomfortable heels and too naked for the icy wind that was blowing. When I looked at her face, I was shocked to find that that voice, which sounded rusted by time and a bitterly intense life, belonged to a girl who couldn’t possibly be older than me. She grabbed my arm to help me get up, and waited stoically while I caught my stolen breath, leaning against a filthy wall. Then she bent down in front of me.

“It's ten bucks for a blowjob,” she said with the chilliness of those who go to the next corner to buy bread.

“I don't want a blowjob.”

She tilted her head, grimacing between annoyance and incredulity. “Are you gay or something?”

“I'm just an idiot.”

She chuckled to herself and took my hand, leading me along the esplanade that served as a parking lot during the day and as a meeting point for less legal business at night. We stopped next to a dismantled car that had only its metal skeleton left. She searched somewhere hidden where the dashboard had once been, recovered a plastic bag she kept there and took out half a sandwich. She offered it to me and I accepted, even though I wasn't hungry, because I didn't feel like refusing her offer for a second time. We sat on the hood looking out over Rikers Island, grateful for the damp breeze coming from the East River, and talked in an astonishingly relaxed way about everything and nothing until she lost her accent completely.

“So… What's your name, lost boy?” she asked after a while.

“Don't be fooled by appearances, I'm not lost; I came here very aware of what I was doing.”

“ _Okaaay_ … I wasn't talking about appearances, though.”

I smiled, realizing that perhaps I had loosened my tongue a bit too much.

“My name’s Elio but people have gotten used to calling me Gambler.”

“Just the bad people, I guess.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I think I'm in a position to call you Gambler, too, then.”

“You can call me whatever you want, but I doubt you're like them.”

“You don't know me.”

“That's true, but I’m good at reading people…”

She hugged her legs and rested her head on her knees, smiling tenderly.

“What about you? What’s your name, girl from the shadows?”

“Lita,” she said in a sort of sigh, making it clear that she wouldn't bother to elaborate further.

“And what's with the accent?”

“Clients like it. What do I know—men, you're just that simple. No offense.”

“None taken. And they buy it? The accent thing, I mean.”

“Why wouldn't they? I'm French, you know?”

“Are you? Then the country should sue you for such sloppy representation.”

“How dare you!” She punched me playfully in the shoulder. “The hell you know.”

“My mother’s French, too. I've spent some time there. I actually miss it.”

“Really? Where?” she said, turning and crossing her legs over the rusty hood, and revealing a childlike enthusiasm. But then we heard a car approaching. “Oh, shit! That's Bob for sure.”

Lita put on her stupid heels, jumped off the car and quickly picked up the few things she had with her.

“It's been a pleasure meeting you, Gambler," she said, turning to me before walking away. “But just so you know, that half-sandwich you scarfed down was all my food today, so you owe me dinner!”

With a wink and a smile, she disappeared in the very darkness from which she had come from.

I couldn't risk going down the three floors of that house dedicated to proxenetism (at least until the police beat them out of there), carrying all that money, so we agreed that Lita would throw the backpack through one of the windows facing the adjacent alley.

“What happened to you, Gambler? Look at your face…”

Violet was on the stairs, posing with the usual cigarette between her lips, and leaning against a wall covered in ripped and stained wallpaper. A red-haired, roly-poly woman stricken in years, who wouldn't let go of her quirky pink organza frilly coat no matter what the weather was like.

“Well… the usual,” I said.

“And that bonebag has managed to put you in a better mood?”

“You know her.”

“You'll come to your senses one day, Gambler. There's nothing like a body to hold on to. And experience, especially experience.”

“Experience is what I lack, so I don't think I could live up to you, Violet.” I rushed down the stairs, but not without placing a kiss on the back of her cheap-jewelled hand.

“Oh, please, don't give me this priggery. You young people today need to stop being so featherbrained and learn more discipline!” she shouted after me as I ran out the door.

On the street the cold seemed to have increased in the last half hour. I sprinted into the alley where only a few rays of artificial light were filtering from the nearby buildings, and I explored the dark windows until I made out Lita's silhouette three floors above. She guided me with a short whistle, and I walked through the gloom, stumbling over all sorts of things of varying consistency.

“Try not to fall over any dead bodies,” she joked.

“Damn it…”

“Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“And… what if I change my mind?”

“Oh, come on, Lita!”

Lita laughed and dropped the backpack. I picked it up before it could land on that dirt infested floor, impregnated with a foul smell that stuck to my nostrils, and which was already giving me a headache.

“I owe you a dinner,” I said, feeling relieved as I put the backpack on my shoulders.

“Make sure it’s a nice restaurant! And very expensive!”

I lost count of the times I had looked at the digits of the old Casio watch I had worn on my wrist since my early teens. It was almost one in the morning and no one had yet come to my rescue. The walls of that narrow hallway seemed to tighten like a corset with each passing minute. One of the lights flickered stubbornly as though sending a coded message. I tried to remember the little I had learned (out of simple curiosity) about Morse code just in case, as the music of Le Bane club pounded against the upper floor. I closed my eyes, hoping to open them and magically find myself in my apartment, in my room. In my bed. I missed my mattress, old and soft, that everyone always advised me to change, but I refused to because I loved to lie on it and let it swallow me up like a big teddy bear's hug.

I heard a door click, and for a few seconds the melody became clear before fading again. The Morris twins appeared in the corridor, with their usual conceited gait and their more than apparent vigorexia disorder.

“You think I have nothing better to do? I've been waiting here for an hour!”

“No way, you've only been here fifteen minutes. So relax, Gambler," the shorter of the two said. “We've had to attend to a matter of vital importance up there. A guy broke a glass over the head of another guy because the latter had spilled his drink on his very expensive shirt.”

“It was barely noticeable!” the other added. “Fucking preppy kids.”

“Well. Tell us, Gambler, do you have our stuff?”

I sighed heavily and handed them the backpack.

“Very good. We'll take it with us, and while we make sure you've been a good boy, you can go to Benny's office, he wants to talk to you.”

“Is it necessary?”

Their response was to turn around and leave me alone again.

Benny Davis' office was on the far side of that hole. I knocked on the door and waited until Benny opened it and motioned for me to come in as he went back inside, dodging some piles of packing boxes. He was hooked on the phone having, by the sound of it, a rather heated conversation.

“Look, I'm not going to tell you this again. I hired you for a very specific reason: to take care of these bureaucratic matters. If every time that there’s a problem you call me, I'm the one doing your job. So, you want to explain to me what the hell I'm paying you for? Give me solutions, Marcus! SOLUTIONS! Problems? I have enough of those. Jesus!” He hung up, banging on the table, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath before looking at me. “Believe me when I tell you, Gambler, your visit is the best thing that's happened to me today. Sit down.”

“You're moving out?”

“We're taking all this to the new club, Kara. I'm sure you'd like that one. Live music and all that. Here, have a look," he said nonchalantly, picking up an advertising flyer which he waved in the air and then dropped again, as he settled behind the repainted metal desk full of papers and folders. “Come on, sit down.”

“I have things to do,” I said without moving from where I was.

“We have a business to talk about. Sit down.”

“Our business is already settled. We had a deal.”

“Sit down…”

“Really, Benny, look at me… you may’ve had a shitty day but mine wasn't much better. I've got a headache and—”

“Sit the fuck down!” he spat, then put a hand to his mouth and in a more affable tone added: “ _Please_.”

I sat unwillingly in a folding chair in front of the desk, letting all the accumulated stress cling to my already aching muscles like dead weight. I was exhausted, not just physically, and the migraine was boiling like a pressure cooker, threatening to burst at any moment.

“What's the problem, Gambler?”

“I want to go home,” I answered with a sob.

“And you will; we won't be long here. Besides, you have to wait for my guys to count the money to see if we can really settle the other issue we have pending.”

“Yes… about that… I don't really know if I trust your minions' accounting skills very much.”

Benny barked out a laugh.

“Don't worry, Gambler, I've got an excellent money-counting machine; state-of-the-art. I also have a camera capturing each and every time one of them scratches their balls—although they don't know that, of course. Anyone would assume that they are clever enough to suspect it, but I won’t be the one risking his neck for either of them." He placed his elbows on the desk and leaned forward as though to share a secret with me. “I’ll tell you one thing, Gambler, the best confidence test you can place in a person is to leave them locked in a room with a substantial amount of money and with the firm promise that they won’t touch any, not-a-single-one, of those bills. But what harm can it do to take just one among many, right? Anyway, let's see…”

From a folder he had prepared on the desk, he took a paper on which there was printed the image of a painting, and placed it in front of me. I looked at Benny, who was watching my reaction with the interest of a bird of prey.

“What's that?” I asked.

“Do you know this painting?”

I came a little closer and examined it carefully. It was an abstract portrait, with thick, colorful brushstrokes that twisted to shape a figure in a fetal position. It was hard to tell if it was a man or a woman, it wasn't even clear if it was an adult or a child.

“Seems vaguely familiar but I'm not sure… Should I’ve seen it before?”

“It’s said that this is the first work of an anonymous painter who, apparently, has been revolutionizing the contemporary scene for some years.”

“I didn't know you were interested in art.”

“And I'm not. Shut up and listen. Benjamin Luster purchased this particular painting two years ago at auction. He paid sixty thousand dollars for it; a not inconsiderable figure but derisory if we consider what an Arab sheik was willing to pay, who was also going to attend the auction, solely and exclusively, to buy this work. But his plane broke down, or something like that, and he couldn't get there in time.”

“How much was he going to pay for it?”

“Two million.”

I moaned, not quite sure if it was astonishment or stupor.

“Yeah… it’s also said that he's offered even more money to Luster to resell the painting, but that asshole has refused outright.”

The twins came in at that moment.

“So?” Benny asked.

“$20.405.”

Benny watched me in curious amazement. “That's $405 more than we had pending, Gambler. Count me stunned.”

“I just want to make sure that the debt is settled once and for all. You can give the five dollars to Ren and Stimpy as a tip.”

The tallest of the twins stepped forward but stopped as soon as Benny raised his hand.

“Look, Gambler, I'm aware of the reputation I have, but I don't chase people for the pleasure of it. In fact, it's an undoubted unnecessary burden for me. However, you will understand that it’s very difficult for me to make a deal with someone if the other party involved doesn’t meet the deadlines in the same way that I do. So, I consider myself fully entitled to claim what is mine, especially since I don't ask questions when I agree to give the loan.”

“A loan with a very high interest rate…”

“I'm not a NGO. This is business.”

“All right. Well, now that this one's settled, I'm going home.”

“We’re not finished here,” he said before I could perform the pantomime of getting up.

“Benny… I'm really tired, and I don't understand where the hell you're going with this Luster, the sheik, and the fucking painting thing.”

Benny leaned back in his seat, interlacing his fingers over his budding belly. If the rumors that had earned him a well-known reputation as an unsparing trickster were overlooked, his appearance was that of an affectionate man. He was less than fifty years old; plump, not very tall, and with the kind of soft features that made him look friendly, even harmless. One would not even suspect that doing business with him could be a death sentence. Benny, however, was not one to get his hands dirty. No. He was the kind of man who could ruin people’s lives until the idea of getting out of the way was born of their own free will.

“You've had a bad day, huh?” he said, displaying one of his charming smiles. “I hope Nichols appreciates what you've done for him.”

My irritation increased at the same rate as the headache hammered furiously against the inside of my forehead.

“Do you know Joel Jarvis' Club?” Benny asked.

“Yes… I know Jarvis’ Club,” I answered with weariness. “Will you get to the point, please?”

“All right, all right. It turns out Jarvis has organized a game that will take place in ten days. You know what I'm talking about, don't you? Not the kind of insubstantial scams I know you're joining these days. Not just anyone can go in there, Gambler, only those with enough money and influence. Doctors, businessmen, Wall Street brokers, politicians, drug dealers…” He leaned over the desk and stared at me. “I've heard, and this is confidential, that Luster is going to put the painting on that table; with the sheik's insistent interest, you can imagine that the painting has gained a lot of value…”

“Why the hell doesn't Luster sell it to him directly if he’s willing to pay whatever’s asked for it?”

“The fuck I know, Gambler! You know what they say about Luster, aside from being loaded, the man's a conservative lunatic. He'd rather burn the painting than sell it to a Moor." He paused briefly. “I want you to play for me. I'll take care of your admission and give you what you need for the bets. I want that painting, Gambler, and when I have it I will sell it to the sheik for such a ridiculous sum that my sphincter loosens just thinking about it. Of course, I'll give you a _small_ part of the profits. What do you say?”

“I think it's utter stupidity.”

Benny threw his head back, as though I'd just slapped him. Not the reaction he had expected, clearly. He was proud of his plan despite the clear evidence that he hadn’t thought it through carefully enough. Without going any further, I had already found a couple of major argumentative and logistical fissures, and I’d barely had a few seconds to think about it.

“I know Jamie, in case you didn't know,” he said, as though that would add value to his reasoning.

“Really? I'm happy for you; he's a good man.”

“We've known each other since we were kids. We lived in the same neighborhood. He's told me a lot about you, Gambler… partly, that's why I took your deal; I knew one way or another you'd end up bringing me the money.”

“You'll be aware, then, of Jamie's tendency to exaggerate.”

“He admires you very much,” he said, completely ignoring my words. “He says you have an incredible aptitude, and he also told me what you did for him… However, I must say that I don't quite understand why? I mean, I understand why you were doing it for Jamie, but I don't understand that being able to pay off the Nichols' debt with a simple check, which I know wasn't going to make any dent in that bank account that your father still feeds year after year, you're stuck in those filthy holes with that bunch of simpletons. Let it be clear, that in all that very public family scandal I always took your mother's side, and I understand your frustration, you were just a kid. But look at you… is it worth playing the rebel son now?”

My heart was beating with a wild cadence as Benny spoke in an almost seductive tone.

“I want to offer you something big, Gambler, something that really lives up to your talent and position. And it's no different from what you did with Jamie…”

“Jamie's a friend, you're just a scoundrel I've had no choice but to negotiate with. The reasons I do this are my own business, and as for my _talent,_ ” I said without realizing I was raising my voice, “it’s not far from what any professional or moderately skilled player can do: calculation of probabilities, guesswork… techniques that anyone with a bit of common sense can use and which aren’t one hundred percent reliable. It's easy to err on the side of intuition—in fact, and this is something you should know because I'm sure Jaime hasn't told you, I'm often wrong. That's why I play with people who are more idiotic than I am.”

I leaned back in the chair and took a breath. My chest was pounding like a thoroughbred racehorse, and my vision was blurring.

Benny was looking at me blankly. “Go home and think about it."

“No, there's nothing to think about, this is bullshit…”

“Gambler…”

“No more _Gambler_!” I stood up like a spring and had to hold on to the corner of the desk to keep my balance. “I'm sick of scum like you! You cling to other people's miseries like real blood-sucking parasites. Fuck this shit! Fuck you. Fuck them. Fuck everything!”

I wish I could tell you what happened right after: the alarmed and stupefied look on Benny's face, the hysterical agitation of the twins… but there's only a black image.

I woke up half groggy, as though in a sleep cure, horizontal on the tiny couch that Benny had cornered in his office.

"He woke up," I heard someone say.

“For a mother's sake, Gambler! You almost made me spit my heart out. The last thing I need is a dead body in here, you know? Let alone one with your name," Benny exclaimed, materializing in front of me. “Listen, maybe you should let a doctor check on you. I know—”

“I'm fine,” I grumbled.

“That's anxiety; we see it a lot around here,” concluded the shorter of the twins, visibly satisfied with his deduction.

“Get some rest, and sleep on what we talked about. I'll call you in two days,” Benny said.

I had neither the tenacity nor the strength to oppose and continue with that silly discussion, so I simply stood up and implied with my pusillanimous silence that I agreed to wait two days to substantiate the matter. The answer would remain the same, but at least I was giving myself some time to think about how to get rid of Benny Davis.

“Maybe it would be better if Roy or Donald gave you a ride home,” Benny said.

It was at least striking how convenience could transform an unscrupulous and manipulative man like Benny into someone as submissive as a donkey.

“No, really, I feel better.”

I whimpered with relief when I set foot inside the entrance hall even though I had always hated my building. It was located on the Lower East Side, one of the oldest neighborhoods in New York, and once a refuge for Jewish and Eastern European immigrants. For some time it didn’t enjoy a good reputation, although it had gradually improved with its charm falling on a mixture of artistic and activist personality. My block was one of many whose red brick walls, blackened by constant pollution, were covered with graffiti, offering a destitute look, or a marked eclectic interest. It all depended on the eyes with which one looked.

The initial comfort lasted throughout the four-story journey in an elevator that, surprisingly, had not yet fallen down, and vanished as Krakatoa Island did, making a lot of noise and barely leaving a trace, as soon as I stopped in front of my door.

Or what was left of it.

I let out my remaining imperturbability in a long, veiled sigh.

What else could happen tonight?

I entered my apartment and watched the chaos as though a hurricane, by a miracle of physics, had been able to sashay into this hovel. At first glance I already missed the TV and the laptop I had left on the small coffee table in front of the couch. I went into my bedroom, the drawers of the nightstand and the dresser were turned over on the floor, the wardrobe was wide open, and the clothes were scattered everywhere. I returned to the foyer that led to both the living room and the tiny cubicle that housed the kitchen.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me…”

I approached the counter in two great strides and watched in astonishment and fierce anger that the coffee maker was also gone.

Seriously.

They stole my fucking coffee maker!

In the living room the situation was not much better. I wasn't one of those people who would fill their home with useless objects in a tacky version of Diogenes syndrome, but I did collect oddities, like the TV from the 50s that rested inside the useless fireplace, or the mountains of books that I piled up in every possible corner, and that were now dispersed all over the floor.

“ _Knock-knock_.”

I jumped around, startled, and found Daniel Mahelona studying the situation with vocational interest from the doorway.

Mahelona was a Hawaiian detective with whom I’d had some contact a couple of years back—unfortunately for me, or for him. Who knew? He was a man in his mid-thirties, tall, with toasted skin, and very good bearing; the kind of tantalizing elegance more befitting the cover of a magazine than a police department. We had first struck up a casual conversation (or so I had thought) when I was still working at Bill & Buster. He started to drop by on Wednesdays as well, although he, unlike the others, did so sporadically and with no apparent schedule.

One of the nights, after an intense and exciting game, he attacked me with a string of poker questions, triggering a long and relaxed conservation that lasted for hours and which the mysterious man, whose name I still didn't know, masterfully conducted despite my futile attempts to divert it to more personal territory and thus find out more about him.

“You take that tale about there being lots of fish in the ocean very literally,” Barney’d said from his favorite spot at the bar.

“He's very attractive, isn't he?”

Barney sent me off with one of his pretended gestures of laziness, a mixture of raising an eyebrow and rolling his eyes.

“One day you'll end up catching a shark from all that casting,” he sentenced and then asked me for the last shot of Brandy of the night.

Barney was right, but there was nothing to lose by trying, and the mystery man showed up one day by surprise when I was about to close.

“Today is not Wednesday and you are a little late,” I joked as a pathetic trick to conceal the optimistic prospects of that unexpected visit.

He sat down on one of the stools and leaned over the bar, looking at me with reserve. He's going to play hard to get, I thought. It was okay, I've never been one to say _no_ to certain challenges.

“I wanted to take advantage of the fact that there was no one here to talk to you in private,” he said.

I was sure that what was heard were the victory bells ringing in the distance.

“About what?” I asked, trying to sound as relaxed as my horniness would allow.

“I realized that after all the conversations we had, and they’ve been quite a few, it hadn’t occurred to me to introduce myself formally. My name is Daniel Mahelona.”

“Daniel Mahelona…” I said, feeling the weight of those two words in my tongue. “Sounds very exotic.”

Daniel smiled. I took a quick look back, scanning my jumbled memory, to remember if I'd ever seen him smile in such a direct and pleasing way; with the curiosity of his brown eyes fully set on me, and the dimples on his cheeks describing a perfect target for whatever might come later.

“I'm afraid you won't be thinking the same thing when we finish this conversation…” he said, putting something over the bar. It was a badge. “I'm a detective.”

The fireworks, whose gunpowder had taken a direct, non-stop route to my crotch, were instantly extinguished and in their place only a buzzing sound was left in my ears. For once in my life I didn't know what to say. I stood there dumbfounded, with a glass in one hand and the cloth with which I was drying it in the other, my attention teetering between the metal badge that stood out on the dark wood and the man it represented.

“Listen,” I finally said, “I'm just an employee, if there's a problem with the bar I really know nothing, I hardly talk to the owner. In fact I barely see him and—”

“It has nothing to do with the bar. Look, I'll be straight because I don't want to waste either of our time. I suppose as a poker aficionado you've heard of a few places where underground games are held, right?” He waited a moment, but at the ignominious silence in reply I offered, he continued, “Well, we have a strong suspicion that a rich businessman, with enough power in this city, has set up an illegal casino in his mansion, where they move obscene amounts of money. These are only suspicions, as I said. Well founded, but suspicions after all. Without hard evidence we cannot obtain a court order and are, therefore, unable to intervene.”

“It sounds bad… but I don't know what that has to do with me or how I can help you,” I answered quickly. “Isn't that the kind of thing that undercover agents are supposed to do, collecting evidence and all that?”

Mahelona (because I could no longer see him as a Daniel) smiled.

“These types of casinos are unpredictable and very exclusive; infiltrating an agent would require an adaptation time to allow us to avoid raising suspicions that we don’t have. They are private surroundings where almost everyone knows each other and, of course, the police isn’t welcome. But I don't know why I have a hunch that these people are not entirely oblivious to your name. Am I wrong, _Gambler_?”

I was sweating like a chicken on a spit and Mahelona was surely noticing.

“What are you getting at?” I asked.

“I've come to propose a collaboration. We could use someone who really moves in that environment to go in and inform us.”

I blinked in a daze. “Wait… You're asking me to become a snitch?”

“You'll be an informer.”

“That's exactly the same thing; it just sounds better. What if I get caught?”

“You won't, you just have to do what you always do: sit down and watch. We'll be with you the whole time.”

Damn it, the night had promised so much at first.

Drying and placing glasses on the shelves to keep my hands busy, I went over the detective's proposal in my head, which was nothing like what I’d expected when I saw him come in. If I got caught, I was fucked. If I refused, I was fucked. I weighed the pros and cons, until the list became so long and confusing that it was impossible to follow. So I finally asked, “What do I get out of it?”

Mahelona arched his thick eyebrows. “Get you out of a year or more of jail for illegal gambling? I know what you're doing, _Perlman_. You and your friend… Jamie Campbell. I’ve heard now that he's making quite a bit of money thanks to you, he wants to open his own business.”

I wasn't stupid enough to ask him how he knew all that because that was his job. I still felt bitter bile coming up my throat.

“If I agree to do this, will Jaime be cleared of any charges as well?”

“If he cooperates… yes. Look, Perlman, this is a very important coup, you can't even imagine. I understand that yours right now is not a pleasant position, but I hope you're smart enough to choose the path that's best for you.”

“That sounds a _little bit_ like blackmail.”

“Actually, it's just advice.”

“Can I at least think about it? I have to talk to Jamie.”

He picked up his badge before reaching into his coat pockets and leaving a business card in its place. “If I don't hear from you in three days, next time we meet I'll come with a warrant in my hand.” He got up to leave. “Don't do anything stupid, okay?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

Mahelona looked at me intently with those eyes that I had considered so suggestive only minutes before, but which were now disturbingly threatening.

“Did you read George Orwell?” he asked.

I nodded slowly.

“Good. Think of me as the Big Brother, then. Have a good night.”

“I'm curious,” I said before Mahelona reached the door. “Why me?”

“Because I know where you come from, Perlman; I know you don't do it for the money. You don't need it. You're just doing it for the fun of it.”

Jamie almost had a heart attack when I told him, but he knew as well as I did that we had no choice but to cooperate. And so we did. The operation was a complete success. Six men were arrested as alleged organizers, as well as twenty-six gamblers and four croupiers. Over fifty thousand dollars in cash was seized and six million dollars’ worth of chips were requisitioned. It was also known that they had come to gamble up to thirty thousand dollars per night. A bargain.

The day after the big raid, Mahelona showed up at Bill & Buster which after (I had to admit) the thrill of playing a police spy, seemed empty, dirty and murky.

“Isn't tonight the Special Night? I thought you'd be celebrating with the rest of the department,” I said, placing the stools on top of the bar, ready to close.

“I wanted to do the honors in person,” he said, handing me an envelope. “It's a Police Certificate, in case you feel like running away somewhere nice and starting a new life.”

“Thanks… I guess. You know? It wouldn't be a bad idea, actually. I'm going to be out of a job after all. Douglas told me today that he's going to sell this place.”

“Who's Douglas?”

“The owner”

“Really? Not Bill or Buster?”

I laughed and Mahelona smiled casually.

“Is that a look of melancholy I see in your eyes, Perlman? Come on, I'm sure you won't have any trouble finding something better.”

“Yeah… well, it was fun.”

“I bet it was. Anyway, now that we can get away from the formalities, how about we go have some drinks and celebrate this on our own?”

How to say no to that?

I learned some interesting things about Mahelona that night; like that he really took his job _very_ seriously, although I had already noticed that. Also that without the weight of his position on his shoulders, he was a tremendously captivating and jovial man with lots of self-confidence. He told me that his mother was Irish and that when she was only eighteen years old she’d traveled to Maui in search of adventure and there, a short time later, she met his father, a young native with the longest and most beautiful hair she had ever seen. They got married and within the period of a year he was born.

“God, it must’ve been amazing to grow up in such a paradise,” I said, with my head resting on one hand, letting the brightly colored cocktails we had been savoring plunge me into a pleasant slumber. “Why come to New York? And to be a policeman no less.”

Daniel (because the rolled up sleeves and the shirt buttons open down past the cordial limit of the collarbone gave him the sufficient informality of a Daniel) showed no signs of annoyance.

“Because you reach adolescence and look for something different; I needed something more than watching tourists roasting in the sun.”

“New York is also full of tourists.”

“But not roasting in the sun.”

“True.”

“I needed the noise and bustle of the city; it makes me feel alive—if that makes sense. Although, it probably doesn't make sense.”

“Well, it makes sense to you.”

We moved from one bar to next, making a thorough investigation of all the drinks at our disposal. One thing led to another and somehow we ended up in my apartment, undressing each other hastily, as though we feared that the trance impregnated with the flavors of a cloying sweetness would disappear at any moment.

I wish I could remember what it was like, and not because I’m a morbid person willing to offer you all the shameful details of that encounter, but because I genuinely want to have the memory of a moment that presented no expectation of repetition, sadly. The next day we had enough trying not to vomit all that mixture of sleek liquids in each other's faces. We didn't sign any verbal agreement to pretend that none of that had happened, but we certainly acted like none of that had happened the next couple of times I worked for the police. Then, eventually (and fortunately for both of us, I imagine) we lost touch.

So, seeing Daniel Mahelona in my apartment that night, of all nights, couldn't bode well. And I blamed Barney for making me think in such an irrational way, but the progress of circumstances didn’t lend itself to any other conclusion.

“What are you doing here?” I asked grudgingly.

“There was a notice coming from 119 Norfolk Street, and remembering it was your address I decided to stop by and take a look. Contrary to what you may think, Perlman, I care about my friends. Did you call?” He asked, pacing and examining the mess.

“No. I just got here.”

“Yeah?” He pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “Did you open the window?” he said, pointing to one of the windows facing the fire escape.

“No.”

“Did you talk to any of your neighbors?”

“No. I told you I just got here.”

He looked at me sideways as he approached the window. “Well, clearly they escaped this way.”

“I'm not entirely sure you really need to be a detective to reach that assumption.”

He deliberately ignored me. “Is there anything missing besides the TV?”

“Why do you know they stole the TV?”

Mahelona glanced at the empty furniture and then turned to me with a bored look.

I gave up.

“What I’ve noticed: they also took a laptop and a coffee maker.”

“A coffee maker?” He asked in an incisively, sardonic tone for my taste.

“Look, you may find this funny because you're a cop and you're probably used to those colorless, tasteless concoctions that New Yorkers like to walk around with so proudly, but the predominance of European blood in my system refuses to poison my stomach with that mud mixed with water—and I'm not a morning person, so I need good coffee, _real_ coffee with just the right amount of acidity and sweetness, in order to function. So, excuse the drama but yes, the loss of my coffee maker is a big deal for me.”

I saw a half-smile forming on the corner of Mahelona’s lips, which were still as full and appealing as I remembered them.

“Well, let me tell you, _Perlman_ , that contrary to clichés, I can appreciate a good coffee too. In fact, I could recommend a few places for you to discover that New York is more than Starbucks.”

“I'm sorry, where did you say you were from again?”

Mahelona closed the notebook and put it inside his coat pocket. “Do you think it was a random theft or were they looking for something specific?” he asked, adopting again the characteristic neutral tone that authority imposes.

“I don't know, you're the detective," I replied, dropping myself on the couch in defeat.

Mahelona nodded and settled down in front of me, sitting on the second-hand furniture where my 46-inch TV had rested until that night. His hair was slightly longer than the last time we had seen each other, allowing his natural curls to twist freely on top of his head. He also had a good razor stubble going; I wondered if this was his choice or if he was just too busy to take care of something so trivial.

“What happened to you, Perlman?”

I didn’t answer, not because I wasn’t tempted to challenge him with some backtalk, but because I didn’t have the strength to do so.

“All right.” He continued. "I'll tell you what I think, then: they've only broken in here, we're on the fourth floor in an apartment far from the stairs. Obviously they came with a very clear intention, and in a neighborhood like this you don’t bother to break down a door if you’re not sure you’ll find something of value on the other side.” He stood up and continued as he walked around the living room. “If it were a simple theft, the most practical thing to do after all the noise is to look for the valuables in sight and leave as quickly as possible. But those who came in here stopped long enough to search the whole apartment.”

“It's a forty-square-foot apartment… and maybe when they saw a MacBook and a $1,200 TV they thought they could find something else of value… like my coffee maker.”

“Or maybe they came looking for something else and took those things as simple compensation. And the state of your face makes me more inclined to this second option. What were they looking for, Perlman?”

“Hey, I'm supposed to be the victim here, why are you talking to me like it's my fault?”

“Well, you're not being particularly helpful, so I'm shuffling through the different options. And speaking of shuffling…" he said, sitting back on the old TV cabinet, “you and I had an agreement, remember?”

“Vaguely…”

Mahelona rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You're playing again.”

“No.” It wasn't a question, but I answered as though it were.

“I didn't expect you to fulfill that ridiculous idea of going to Tibet, honestly—too far away and not enough slots at hand.”

“I'm surprised you remember.”

“I'm surprised too, believe me. But I certainly expected you to be a lot smarter, Perlman.”

“These are minor gatherings, I'm sure they don't even constitute a crime.”

“Oh… are you sure about that?”

“I informed myself.”

“Well, I'm afraid you didn’t inform yourself very well.”

“And I bet, by your despotic tone, Mr. Officer, you'd enjoy handcuffing me.”

“I'd love to do it right now, yeah.”

It shouldn't, but this turn in the conversation was making me a bit too horny, although Mahelona broke the stirring interaction, getting up with a sort of snarl.

“I know what shit you're into, Perlman, and I don't like it. But I'm going to turn a blind eye because I more than likely need you for an important matter. I'll contact you when I have more specific information," he looked around. “You should think about reporting what happened… although I warn you; I don't think you'll get anything back.” He stood there for a second, with his hands on his hips as though thinking about something, then turned and went to the door. “I'll talk to you soon.”

When Mahelona had disappeared, I was hit by an unexpected sense of loneliness. I picked up the phone and called an emergency locksmith. On the other end of the line, a lady answered in a sleepy, listless voice, assuring me that, because of the time of year, they were understaffed but that she would do her best to send someone. I approached the kitchen with the intention of making me a strong cup of coffee, but I diverted my intentions towards my room as soon as I remembered that I no longer had a coffee maker. In the closet, I found a golf club that I had never used in my life, but which I figured could be used as a defensive weapon if necessary.

I settled back down on the couch and looked at my watch, it was almost four in the morning. I thought about distracting myself with some movies, but I didn't have a TV either. A gust of cold air blew into the living room as a reminder that the window was still open. I was so unwilling to get up again that I thought about leaving it like that, but finally went over and shut it. I looked at the fire escape; the bastards fled downstairs with my stuff and no one had stopped them. What's more, I was sure that none of the people who lived on this floor had gone beyond the border of the peephole in their doors when they heard mine being broken down.

Nor did I blame them.

I sat back on the couch and looked at the wall, there, among others, was a picture of Barney, Barbara, Grace and me, smiling casually on a beautiful summer day. They had planned a weekend getaway to Lake George and, as they usually did, invited me to join them. We strolled around, ate tons of food, swam in the lake… it was a really nice couple of days which also led to a little event that concerned Grace and me, and that involved a sunset, a secluded place behind the bushes and a few extra glasses of wine. I've always had a feeling that Barbara suspected something, though she never said anything about it. But I'm sure the idea never crossed Barney's mind. And it was better that way, because even though in the end we only shared a few kisses and a bit of groping under our clothes, I was sure New York wouldn’t be big enough for me if Barney found out.

I smiled at the memory, and then looked at my watch. It would be an odyssey to stay awake until the locksmith arrived; I felt as though my eyelids were bound with stones. I snorted with exasperation. I thought of spending my time tidying up the apartment and making sure nothing else had been stolen, but for that I needed to move so that was out of the question. I tried to ponder some other solution, but even thinking was too much of an effort—I checked my watch once again. Only ten minutes had passed. I was right; this was going to be a very long night. I began to mentally list all the poor hamsters I had been given as a child. By the time I got to the fourth, Robbie, I had fallen asleep.

_You woke up all of a sudden._

_“Fuck, focus, Elio,” you said to yourself and inspected your tiny living room—the battleground—looking for anything that could distract you, but something puzzled you. At first it was just a strange feeling, as though everything had suddenly gone quiet. You couldn’t even hear the perpetual din of traffic in that tireless city. There was one sound, however, that did catch your attention. At first it was barely audible, but it gradually grew louder. It was an opaque and strangely earthy noise, like that of earthquakes. And you were frightened at the thought of it being one because everything began to shake abruptly as the sound increased in intensity._

_You put one foot on the ground, as though you could magically stop it that way, and were surprised when you realized that you were barefoot. You had no record of when you had taken off your boots, but then you noticed something much more disturbing: the carpet was soaked under the naked touch of your skin. You frowned, puzzled, and wondered if perhaps you had left a tap running in your semi-conscious state._

_But there was too much water—and more and more._

_The level was rising so fast that in a few seconds it had covered more than an inch. You climbed onto the couch instinctively, but it was a useless thing to do because the water had overflowed the height of some furniture and was already reaching your knees. Your pulse quickened, and fear and uncertainty clung to you like two beings of flesh and blood. You didn’t understand what was happening. All your belongings, your books, your photographs, floated around you as the water continued to rise unstoppably. You couldn't think straight. At first you were simply trying not to sink, but you soon panicked, knowing you were trapped, when there was no more than a chink of air left before the water reached the ceiling. You filled your lungs because what else could you do? And you dove in. When you opened your eyes you were confronted with a nightmarish sight, as if from another dimension,_ _and although there was not much light, you realized with astonishment that you were not alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have guessed, Lita is Marzia :)


	5. THREE

I sat up abruptly, drenched in sweat, disoriented, frightened, and possessed by panic; panting for breath like a shipwrecked man.

“Did you have a nightmare, Captain?”

I didn't scream, I swear I didn't. But I retreated to the side of the couch like a scared little fawn on a dusky road. Instinctively I looked for the golf club, which I had apparently lost at some point during that perfidious narcosis, when I came across Vimini's green and candid eyes. She was sitting on the carpet, legs crossed, and from her restful pose I presumed she’d been there for quite a while.

“Fucking—You want me to have a heart attack? Didn't anyone ever teach you how to knock?”

“There's no door, Captain. But don't worry; I've been here, keeping watch while you slept like a log. Although you seemed to be having a bad dream, and your cellphone hasn't stopped ringing. I think now the battery's dead.”

“Great…”

The headache was still killing me, although it was no worse than any other hungover morning. Harder to bear was the numbness that tortured the rest of my body, as though my muscles were coated in tons of concrete. I thought of the more than tempting possibility of sitting here all day, not moving, and ignoring the world on the other side of these walls. But it was a desire as unproductive as it was chimerical, so I made the terrible effort to crawl off the couch and look out the window. It was cloudy and snowy, and the brightness of the day made it clear that it’d been dawning for some time.

“What time is it?” I asked

“8:53,” Vimini replied, glancing at her flashy Spider-Man watch.

I checked my own watch; it was true. I left Vimini there and went to the bathroom. When I returned I found her waiting for me in the middle of the living room, rooted like a cactus.

“I took a cookie from the black can, I hope you don't mind.” She put it almost whole in her mouth.

“Has anyone come asking for me?”

“ _Nopf_.”

I looked at the time again and swore a great oath, searching for the landline.

“Did you have a lot of work last night, Captain? Those bruises tell me you did. Do they hurt? Did you face a lot of bad guys? I bet you beat the hell out of them.”

Vimini dropped that last sentence with a vehemence that was touching the limits of very dangerous terrain. Her lanky appearance made her seem taller than she really was, for she was a rather small girl for her nine years. Her hair was a soft orange color that she used to wear in two root braids falling over her shoulders. The freckles that dotted her face stood out like ink spots on her pale complexion. She resembled a doll, as fragile as a porcelain figure.

“I've told you a million times not to call me Captain. Besides, don't you have anything to do? I don't know, go to school or whatever it is that kids your age do instead of annoying me and eating my cookies?”

“Today’s Thanksgiving, there’s no school!”

I closed my eyes. I had completely forgotten. The prospects of that day, which had already dawned tremendously discouraging, had worsened considerably in a heartbeat. I dialed the locksmith's number again. A man answered this time, not much more awake than the woman I had talked to at ungodly hours, and rather less cooperative. At his irresolution about the seriousness of my problem, because for God's sake it was Thanksgiving, I entrusted myself to the Holy Farce, threatened by Vimini's uncontrollable indiscretion, which I had no choice but to contain by covering her mouth with my hand, while begging over the phone that I needed someone to do the repairs because I had to catch a flight that morning to attend my great-aunt's funeral in New England, and I couldn’t leave without a door to close. The pack of lies seemed eventually to be doing their job and the man promised, though with much grumbling, that he’d send someone to take a look.

I hung up, returning from the confines of claptrap to the chaos I still had to face at home. Then I felt Vimini’s drool as she mumbled something against the palm of my hand. I let her go and sat down on the couch. She mirrored the gesture.

“I didn't know you had family in New England, Captain.”

“And I don't. Although I know someone there…”

The memory of Oliver left me with a bitter taste in my mouth, but I let it go; I had more important things to worry about, and appropriateness seemed to start with taking a shower. I was still wearing my clothes from the day before, and I was sure I smelled like a wet dog.

“I saw them last night,” Vimini said in a soft voice.

“Who?”

“The guys who broke in here. We heard a loud noise; I wanted to come down, but Mom and Dad wouldn't let me. Then we heard them outside and I peeked out on the stairs before Mom brought me back in. I saw them—four men. One of them also saw me and did this thing.”

“What thing?”

She put her little index finger on her neck and drew an invisible line from side to side.

“Jesus, Vimini! You should be more careful; they could've hurt you.”

“I'm not afraid of those motherfuckers.”

I raised my eyebrows in amazement. “Does your mom know that you speak like that?”

“Well… I don't do it in front of her,” she replied innocently.

“Well, don't do it in front of me either. Sounds ugly.”

“But you say those things all the time, Captain.”

“I'm not a good role model…” I said with resignation, got up and took out my cellphone. The battery had indeed died.

I thought about leaving it just like that—after all, if they couldn't reach me, I wouldn't have to explain myself. But I very well knew it was a stunt with no great promise, so I searched for the charger.

“Hey, Vimini, I'm gonna ask you a favor. It'll be like a little mission. I need you to stay here and watch the apartment while I take a shower. If anyone shows up, let me know right away, okay?”

“Okay!”

“I'm serious: _don't_ talk to anyone. If someone you don't know comes, go get me immediately. And please, knock before you come in.”

“Aye, Captain.”

I turned on the hot water tap, closed my eyes and let myself go under the stream, hoping that all the tension would rinse down the drain too. I increased the water’s temperature until the steam invaded everything and the falling drops burned my skin like in a rain of ashes. It was impossible to discern how long I’d stayed like this, but when I came out I felt like a new person. I looked for something to wear among the clothes that were lying around the room. There, I found a small package wrapped in craft paper that I had kept in the closet. I was glad the intruders hadn't seen it, or if they had, that at least they hadn't taken it away. I left it on the bedside table.

I was just finishing tying my shoes when I realized Vimini was having a lively conversation with someone. I came out quickly as an exhalation, and found her chatting animatedly with a man who stood on the other side of the doorway.

“Vimini! What did we agree on?” I scolded her, pulling her away.

“He says he's coming to look at the door.”

“So you're the desperate man.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Are you the locksmith?”

“What do you think?” he said, tapping his fingers over the embroidered letters on his jacket pocket.

“How long would it take you to put a new door in?”

“Well… that depends on what kind of door you want: if you choose a basic model, like the one I see you had, I could use this same structure that hasn't suffered much damage. But if you prefer a better one, then I would’ve to change the whole frame and that’d take more time.”

“How long?”

“I don't know, about two or two and a half hours.”

My cellphone started ringing. I ignored it. Benny Davis had said he’d call back in two days, but I was afraid he might change his mind, and I wasn't ready for another rosary of sterile evasions. I needed more time to think.

“So… which door do you choose, Sir?”

“Look, I already told you I'm in a hurry, so install the basic one.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“My friend, I'll be honest with you: whichever door you choose, I'm afraid you're not gonna make that plane. So since I've been so kind as to come here, I could show you our catalogue—but since we are at work, and in view of where you live, I would advise our Premium model reinforced with two horizontal and vertical welded steel profiles that—”

“Listen, I'm going to be honest with you too, I don't have to catch any plane, okay? But I'm not lying when I say I'm in a hurry. Besides, I'm renting, and I know the cheapskate owner won't want to take care of the expenses. So, you do what you have to do and put in a basic door as fast as you can.”

I went back and picked up the landline receiver again. I didn't expect it to be any other way, but I was happy when Mafalda answered the call. Her inflated enthusiasm in recognizing my voice, mixed with her thick Italian accent, made me smile.

“Yes, I'm looking forward to seeing you—both, too. But could you tell my mom I'm gonna be a little late? Something happened here, and I have to take care of it. No, it's nothing important; I'll see you in a few hours. Yes, I'm sure everything will be delicious, you're the best cook in the world, and you know it. _Ti voglio bene_.”

I hung up and turned to face my two attentive listeners. Vimini's cheeks were swollen and there was a trail of telltale crumbs around her mouth and chin, while the locksmith was stuck by the door with his eyes squinting as though conjecturing something.

“Do you need any other instructions? And _you_ , stop eating those cookies.”

Vimini shrugged.

“That sounded like a maid,” the locksmith said.

“So?”

“Nothing, just that I have family to spend the day with too, you know? And yet here I am, working on a holiday with wages being adjusted in relation to the bill issued, and I think someone who wears clothes like those you’re wearing and talks on the phone to a maid can certainly afford our Premium model.”

“Do you think if I could afford a maid I'd live here?”

“I've seen weirder things. Besides, you live with a little girl so…”

I looked at Vimini, who pressed her lips either to avoid laughing or to contain her indiscreet cricket voice. But the rascal didn’t even make the attempt to correct the man.

“All right! Install the damn Premium door.”

After two hours, plus the two-and-a-half-hour drive, and six hundred dollars less in my wallet, I was parking in the driveway of the place where I had grown up. A beautiful, typical Hampton’s beach house, with its white wooden siding and the carved porches and balconies that made it look so cozy. The land around it was covered with a white mantle that further accentuated its dollhouse appearance. Anyone would be delighted to spend a few hours in the shelter of those walls and their unparalleled views. Anyone but me.

I looked at the postcard-like scenery and thought about my options: on the one hand, grow some balls and face the Ice Woman, that is, my mother. On the other hand, to change into reverse and head back to Dune Road in the direction of Manhattan, and spend the day in my apartment taking a well-deserved rest. But it wasn’t a break what awaited me there, and I couldn’t help thinking of poor Mafalda and the hours she’d probably spent in the kitchen preparing a special meal for three.

I got out of the car and headed toward the entrance. There, at the top of the stairs, lay Luca, a one-eyed dog of indefinite breed that my mother had decided to adopt a few years back. Luca raised his head and wagged his tail slightly, but as soon as he smelled me he returned to his permanently snoozing position. I never understood why that damn mutt didn't like me. I went over and stroked his head just to show him that I came in peace. Then I noticed that there was someone else on the porch. Sitting on a wicker bench, wrapped in a blanket and holding a glass of wine, was Annella Moreau. She didn't flinch at my presence; her eyes were fixed far away. She looked just like always, her brown hair tied up in a neat low chignon, and her pale face fresh and immaculate without a single drop of make-up. She didn’t usually wear a lot of jewelry but even dressed in simple and comfortable clothes she conveyed an unquestionable elegance.

I went up and offered her a kiss on the cheek. She leaned subtly toward the contact, though I was almost convinced that she hadn’t noticed the involuntary response of her own body—she seemed too busy making a titanic effort not to move a single muscle. Sometimes I wondered if she was trying to punish me with this attitude or if she was just punishing herself.

“What are you doing out here, _maman_? You're going to catch pneumonia.”

“Watching the snow fall relaxes me,” she said impassively, taking a sip of her drink. “Do you want one?”

I shook my head and sat down next to her. And that's how we stayed, like two inert vegetables waiting for irrigation. No speaking, no moving; in complete silence.

“How's everything going here?” I asked eventually in an attempt to neutralize the growing tension between us that was beginning to take shape.

“Same as the last time you called… eight months ago? Yeah, it was for my birthday. By the way, thanks for the necklace you sent me, it's very nice.”

My eyes dropped immediately, but she was wearing a thick turtleneck sweater. She spoke calmly, with a quiet tone and her gaze secure somewhere else. I had the feeling that she wasn't even blinking. I, meanwhile, was getting restless. I never knew what to do when I was with her, and what made me most uneasy about the whole thing was that it hadn't always been like this.

My mother was a lax woman; the insidious ones would tell you that excessively. She never interfered in my decisions, not even when I was a child. She was non-judgmental and only gave her opinion if I asked her openly. I had no secrets from her, or at least I hadn’t during the transition from childhood to adolescence. She’d always left it up to me to decide on any issue that concerned me because she believed that learning was in our slipups. But more importantly: because she trusted me. I knew there were those who criticized her for it, claiming that it was just a sign of aloofness and lack of interest, and that made me very angry because it wasn't true. My mother was a very loving woman; she just didn't live in constant agony hovering around the shadow of her inept son. She never dictated, only observed from a safe distance and intervened if strictly necessary. However, since I moved to Manhattan (actually, since I moved after I dropped out of school) her attitude had changed drastically. Or had it been mine? Whatever had happened that was clearly beyond my understanding, the truth was that, for a few years now, we were behaving as though we were complete strangers.

“The other day I saw Sandy Pullman,” she said suddenly to my surprise, “she got married last year. She's eight months pregnant. Do you know which house she intends to buy?” I could imagine. “The little cliff house in Montauk, remember? You said that when you got married you'd live there and have hundreds of children.”

Something similar to a sorrowful smile was projected on her face.

“We were two kids away with the fairies.”

“Her husband's a lawyer, he works for Wachtell.” She paused dramatically, and took a sip of wine. “Tell me, what do you do, Elio?”

To put you in the picture: it could be said that Wachtell was the pinnacle of law firms. It was known to everyone that they bragged of turning down more cases than they accepted, keeping only those that were a real professional challenge for them. Nothing I could say would compete with that, not even if I made up an elaborate and unrealistic story with its exposition, climax and resolution. So I decided not to reply, assuming that she didn't expect an answer either, anyway. We lapsed again into a deep silence until Mafalda, to our relief, made an appearance.

“ _Tesoro_!” She opened her arms waiting for a hug, though she withdrew in horror as soon as I turned to look at her. “ _Dio santo_! What happened to you?”

“You won't believe this, but I was walking along the sidewalk when out of nowhere a bike hit me and I fell flat on my face. I’m so happy to see you,” I said, getting up and holding her tightly in my arms.

“Oh… Elio, Elio.” She held my face with both hands. “Look at you… and when did you last cut your hair?”

“Don't you like it?”

“You have such beautiful hair, and you look good no matter what. We are grateful for the great resemblance you have to your _mamma_.”

We turned to look at her, but she glanced in the opposite direction suitably. Mafalda asked for my understanding with a brief nod and then stepped back to examine me better.

“You're thinner, how is that possible? Who knows what you're eating?”

“Well, I have to inform you that I’ve learned to cook a lot of things. One day I’ll come and prepare a succulent menu for both of you.”

“I'd like to see that… but, just in case, I intend to fatten you up like a pig today. I've made a special menu and I've also prepared _filetto en costra,_ your favorite. If there's any leftovers you can take some with you. And now everyone inside, _andiamo_ , _andiamo,_ it's freezing out here, and the food is almost ready.”

Sometimes I had doubts about who the lady of the house really was. Mafalda had worked for the family since before I was born. She started in the Italian villa that my mother had inherited in Moscazzano, which was the perfect sanctuary for the lethargic summer months. Mafalda lived in the same town with her husband, yet she had been widowed very young and alone, with no children or close family, she had found in our house not only a source of income but a home. She was a member of the family, and had been a great support to my mother and me when my father had ventured, with rather little guile, under the skirts of one of his interns.

My father, Samuel Perlman, was the founder of Pearl Company, one of the nation's leading art and cultural consultants, specialized in advising and managing art collections of large museums (and individuals with a lot of money) as well as cultural projects. Rumor has it that, after numerous encounters with his very young apprentice, she ended up getting pregnant by accident. As it couldn’t be otherwise, the miscalculation in the _coitus interruptus_ caused a real jam—it was easy to hide an affair but not a pregnancy.

My father found her a doctor to get rid of the glitch with discretion and class, as well as a good tip. But not only did the girl not agree to such demands, but to save her own skin in the face of any possible retaliation (and advised by a rather artful lawyer), she sat down on a talk show to tell her juicy story of harassment and abuse of power, during prime time. The scandal spread like a prairie fire through all the major media, who raffled off America's favorite victim with tantalizing checks, as the country was torn between feeling sorry for her and seeing her as a homewrecker. My father tried to excuse himself to my mother with poor arguments while trying to negotiate the silence of the girl, who seemed to have gotten used to the cameras, but he got no results on either end. So he opted to fight back using the same tricks as his ex-lover and offered himself to sit down, exclusively, with one of the most powerful hosts on American television. What he couldn’t measure was how little empathy an adulterous, molesting and cowardly man could arouse.

The interview was a disaster.

Journalists camped out on our doorstep waiting to scratch out some statement they could twist or get some sordid enough picture of the oblivious cuckold, or the child terrified at the barrage of flashes that went off every time we had no choice but to go in or out of the house.

Between embarrassment and disappointment, my mother fell into a deep depression; unable to reason or act. She wouldn't get out of bed, waiting for all that grievance to magically disappear. But there seemed to be no end to it, and finally it was Mafalda who encouraged her to file for divorce. So in addition to the infidelity scandal, plus pregnancy, there was the million-dollar separation lawsuit.

My father, overwhelmed, didn’t want his public image to be further damaged, with the impact that would have on the company. So he finally agreed to all the requirements on both fronts, getting rid of the mess as quickly as he could. Miraculously, Pearl Company didn’t suffer, but he disappeared completely from the public eye for a few years, while my mother was left alone, with a five-year-old and a maid she really didn’t need, but also, well-heeled.

Now, I watched Mafalda enter the house as I waited for my mother, who stood up, called Luca, and passed by acting as though I didn't exist. At least I was relieved to know that once inside I was going to enjoy a delicious meal.

While Mafalda finished setting the table, I accompanied the Ice Woman into the kitchen, where she poured another glass of wine and started to cut some tomatoes for the salad.

“You're not gonna look at my face all day?” I asked.

“I have friends in Manhattan,” she said, “people who tell me things, and I tell them: _No, no, no. Not my son. You have no idea. Elio is smarter than all that_." She turned around and fixed her big brown eyes on me for the first time since I’d arrived. “But I'm beginning to be unsure of that—or even of who I'm looking at.”

“I wonder that, too, sometimes, honestly…” I answered heavily.

“And?”

“I don't know… Look, it doesn’t matter, _maman,_ this conversation isn't going to get us anywhere, and I didn't come here to argue with you. I just wish we could have a nice, quiet evening.”

“I don't want to argue either, Elio. That's the saddest thing of all; I think I've already thrown in the towel.”

“Maybe you wouldn't have to if you'd just accept what's right in front of you and stop waiting for the perfect son to walk through that damn door.”

“I'm not looking for the perfect son! I'm looking for _you_ , Elio!”

That outburst caught me so off guard that I didn't know how to react. Losing her temper was not like her, and her words had managed to open a deep fissure in my chest.

Mafalda, who I suspected had been waiting conveniently to do so, entered the kitchen and the conversation was over as suddenly as it had begun.

Leaving aside the buzzing of my phone that had acted as background music with intermittent but constant insistence, the meal went surprisingly well. Mafalda had tried to get out of the way to give us a moment to talk and see if, with a bit of luck, we could smooth over the rough edges once and for all. But my mother had insisted that she sat down with us. So we spent the evening talking about trivialities: the food, the coming snowstorm that was announced at all times and the effect that the excess of wine was having on Mafalda. By now she’d asked me at least four times if there were no women in my life, and I’d answered that, "No women, no men" each and every one of them. That always astonished her but never deterred her.

“Is it that women, _and men_ , in Manhattan don't have eyes in their faces? Or is it that they just don't have taste?”

“A little of the former, and a lot of the latter.”

Even my mother had laughed at that with a nod of approval.

After the meal, Mafalda excused herself to go prepare dessert (and get some air) and my mother got up to make the coffee. I helped them to clear the table and then, while they were busy with their own things, I went to the living room whose windows overlooked the sea. That was definitely my favorite part of the house—during the summer because of the direct access to the beach, and during the winter because of the warmth of the fireplace. I also liked the mayhem that reigned: the bookcases full of books that covered a large part of the main wall, while the rest were full of photographs and paintings, many of them by my mother. But my favorite element was in one of the corners, an imposing grand piano, as swanky as a ship with its sails unfurled, in the middle of the sunset.

I sat at it and let my fingers tumble over its polished keys. I watched the snowflakes dyeing everything white as the melody filled the room with a tenderness that brought back the feelings of the past. I scanned the living room, compiling the memories that floated around like butterflies, until my eyes fell on a book that rested on one of the shelves. On its thick spine it read _Guide to Contemporary Art: 20th-21st Centuries_. I stopped playing instantly, and sat down by the window overlooking the porch with the book in my lap. I turned the pages quickly and with anticipation until I found it. There it was, the painting that Benny Davis had shown me. It was printed full-page in a quality that had nothing to do with the cheap copy I’d seen in his office. Here, the nuances of the colors and the thick, carefree character of the brushstrokes could be appreciated much better.

“Oh, you've moved on to the visual arts, now?”

I hadn't heard my mother come in; she had a tray with two plates of cheesecake and two cups of coffee that she set on the table right next to me. She sat in the rocking chair.

“Where's Mafalda?”

“She said she needed to take a nap. Too much Lambrusco, I suspect.”

We laughed as though for a moment we had forgotten, but the armistice was fleeting, and the anguish returned with an overwhelming weight as though to remind us that there was still much to mend. So she went back to her piece of cake and I went back to the book.

“I hear there are many people interested in this painting,” I said vaguely. “In fact, I've been told that Benjamin Luster paid sixty thousand dollars for it.”

My mother chuckled. “Luster threw his money away.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Simply because the painting he bought isn't worth it.”

“Seriously? I heard that a sheik was willing to pay two million for it, and also that he offered Luster even more money to resell it to him. There has to be something for all of them to want it.”

“These people aren’t interested in art, Elio, they're just looking for exclusivity. They'll go after any singular piece and spend whatever money is needed _, because-they-have-it_ , as long as they can boast that they’re the owners of something unique.”

“Do you know anything about the painter?”

She tilted her head with a curious look and took her time, as though she was envisaging something.

“You were always a very imaginative and creative child,” she said with undeniable melancholy, “but you were more inclined to music than to painting—in fact, you didn't want to hear anything about pencils or oils or anything like that. I suppose it's your sensitive side; you've always needed things to be logical and everything to follow a stable pattern. And you certainly have the talent for it. You never wanted to spend time in the studio with me while I was painting, you said it was boring… in that sense you were quite obstinate.”

She grinned and then turned to contemplate the beautiful spectacle outside.

“I don't know if that's changed much.”

Her eyes met mine again, the smile had disappeared and in her gaze one could sense remorse. She took a piece of cake to her mouth and then, changing her countenance, added, “Not much is known about the painter. There are rumors; of course, some think it's a man, others think it's a woman… What other options are there, anyway? Why are you so curious? Do you like the painting?”

“Yes, it's actually quite cool.”

My phone cooed in the distance. I had left it in my parka’s pocket, hanging in the foyer, but that heavy buzzing could be heard even from there.

“Don't you ever plan to answer?”

I didn't lift my eyes from the book but I knew she was scrutinizing me carefully. Then she stood up briskly.

“The day you grow up, Elio…”

She took her plate and left. I closed the book, ate the cake, and drank my coffee and hers. Then I went out on the porch and sat down to smoke in the corner farthest from the French doors. There was a couple on the beach, walking carefree with their Labrador that was running euphorically, wallowing in the mixture of snow and sand.

I had consumed only half of the cigarette when I heard a sound coming from the living room. I hurriedly put it out in a small pile of snow.

“Aren't you a little old to hide?” Mafalda asked jokingly.

“I know she doesn't care, but I don't like smoking in front of her. And I'm quitting anyway.”

Mafalda approached, wrapping her jacket around her tiny body. “I know she may seem cold, _tesoro,_ but she's just worried about you. So am I. You know she loves you more than anything… it's starting to snow harder, why don't you stay over tonight? It's getting late and I don't think it's safe to drive.”

“I'd love to, but I can't; I have things to do in town. I'll drive carefully, I promise.”

I got up, and accompanied her inside, gifting her with a whole arsenal of the cuddles that I knew she loved so much.

“I've prepared some of the leftover food so you can take it with you.”

“Thank you, Mafalda, I'm sure I've put on at least five pounds today.”

“You need it badly.”

I started the car, loaded with food; my mother and Mafalda were waiting on the porch. Mafalda waved her hand wildly in the air when I honked to say goodbye to them, while my mother merely bowed her head.

It was late when I got home; the snow had made driving difficult and there had been major traffic jams, mostly caused by cars trapped in the ice. I left the food in the fridge and went out on the fire escape. It was very cold and the snowflakes fell heavily, but I needed a cigarette. I’d barely taken two puffs when I heard movement over my head.

“Hello, Captain.”

I groused and looked up. I could see Vimini through the narrow slits in the landing.

“What’re you doing there?”

“The window's closed… I'm locked out… no one's home.”

She was talking very slowly, as though it was hard for her. I looked closely and realized that she was dressed only in a flannel nightgown. I threw away my cigarette without hesitation, and I climbed the steps that separated the Russo's apartment from mine two at a time. I found Vimini sitting on the windowsill, half asleep and with her lips showing an alarming bluish color. I checked the window, which was indeed closed. I took her in my arms, covered her with my parka and carried her down to my apartment.

“Calm down, Captain. I'm fine. I'm not cold. It doesn't hurt at all. That's my superpower.”

“Shut up, Vimini. I'm gonna get you out of these clothes, okay? They're soaked.”

She looked at me with woozy eyes as I ran around the apartment looking for towels, dry clothes and blankets. I moved the couch and placed it next to one of the radiators, covered the girl with everything I could find and helped her get warm. As soon as I noticed that she was starting to liven up, I left her lying there, wrapped in blankets like a spring roll, and went to the kitchen to make her a hot drink.

“I can't move, I look like a mummy,” she said, giggling.

“You could be a real one right now. Seriously, Vimini, one day you're going to really upset someone badly.”

“Not if you're around, Captain. We're a team.”

“Stop talking nonsense. And don't call me Captain.”

I left two cups of tea to steep and then sat on the couch next to her.

“Are you feeling better?”

“I told you, I'm fine, just got a little drowsy.”

“Where are your parents?”

“They went to see my aunt, she's in the hospital.”

“And your brother?”

I thought I saw her shrug. “I don't know; he’s acting strange lately. I think he's mad at you.”

“At me?”

“Yes, you ignore him. It'd be a little weird if you were boyfriends, right?”

“The hell are you talking about? Your brother is nineteen.”

“Twenty. And he's crazy about you. You think I'm stupid and don't see it? It was his birthday last week. I think he was hoping you'd say something to him.” She paused. “He meets with some nasty guys and my parents don't like it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I've heard them argue about it many times.”

I sighed. We'd better leave the Marco thing for later.

I helped Vimini to sit up; she looked better; her pale skin had turned a slight rose-tinted color and her lips had recovered their natural tone. She took off some of her clothes while I brought her one of the warm cups.

“This is disgusting, Captain.”

“I should scrub your tongue with the toilet brush, so you can see what's disgusting.”

My cellphone, which had given me a break on the way back, came back to life at that moment. I reached into my parka pocket and pulled it out next to the trading card Barney had given me, the existence of which I had already forgotten. I threw the phone aside and looked at Vimini who was determined to keep making nauseating faces as she took small sips of my concoction.

“We'll do one thing; if you behave and finish your tea, I'll give you something.”

Her face lit up instantly; she saw the trading card in my hand and snatched it from me without wavering.

“Batman!”

Then we heard footsteps upstairs.

“Oh… I think they're back,” she said unwillingly.

“I'll go tell them you're here.”

“ _Nooooo_ …”

“Don't move from here, and finish drinking that.”

I went up to the fifth floor and knocked on the apartment that was just above mine. It was Marco, Vimini's brother, who opened. His cheeks flushed as soon as he laid his eyes on mine. One thing was certain; Marco was a very beautiful young guy, with delicate features and pale skin like a suitor from the romantic period, a ginger Lord Byron. Actually, the two siblings looked quite similar physically, although Marco didn't have the self-assurance of his sister. Sometimes he could convey a dangerous naivety for a city that was too big, and where the assholes multiplied easily.

“Elio…”

“Don't you miss anyone?” I asked in a rougher tone than I would’ve wished.

He looked at me puzzled. “Eh… my parents are out and…” He hesitated a moment and looked behind him. “Vimini?”

“Yes, _Vimini_. You left your sister alone outside where she nearly froze to death. Now she's in my apartment; you can go down and get her if you have _nothing_ better to do.”

I turned around and headed for the stairs without further ado.

“Elio, wait!” He ran after me. “Is she okay?”

“She's perfectly fine. That girl is as strong as a hunting dog.”

I opened the door and we found Vimini, who had put one of the blankets around her neck as a cape, whining as she tried to move the couch.

“What are you doing now?”

“I'm trying to put it back in place, Captain.”

“Jesus Christ! Will you stop fooling around? You've had enough adventure for one day.”

I took her by the arm, dragging her to the entrance where her brother was waiting and who quickly jumped to hug her.

“Vimini! What happened? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I got stuck outside but the Captain showed up in time, as usual.”

Marco and I shared an understanding look. It wasn't the first time that one of Vimini's fantasies ended up getting her and her family into serious trouble.

“Go back home, I'm coming right over,” Marco said after kissing his sister's wild hair.

“Bye, Captain!”

She looked ridiculous in my clothes, but she didn't seem to mind. With a clumsy gesture trying to imitate a military salute, she trotted up the stairs and left us alone. I picked up the cup that, of course, Vimini hadn't finished drinking and took it to the sink.

“Thank you," Marco said, making no secret of his culpability. “I—”

“You've been irresponsible.”

“I just went out for a moment, I thought—”

“Do you realize your sister could have died from hypothermia?”

“I thought she was in her bedroom! I didn't think—”

“You didn’t think. That's your fucking problem, Marco! You have no idea what you're doing, or who you're doing it with.”

“Why are you talking to me like this, Elio? This isn't just about Vimini, is it? This is about what happened the other day.”

“The other day doesn't matter,” I said, trying to soften the tone and sound convincing at the same time.

“Of course it does, otherwise you wouldn't be here yelling at me.”

I took the second cup, which was still full, and left it next to the other. It frustrated me to lose my composure like that every time Marco walked near my field of vision. Something Barney loved to point out if the opportunity presented itself, and I berated him for it, accusing him of being a pervert. The only problem was that we both knew he was right. Yeah, I know, I know. But when I talked about the assholes that populated this town, I wasn't excluding myself. I knew it wasn't right, especially since I was more than aware of Marco's feelings, as I had experienced that kind of hopeless fixation in my own flesh. I was trying hard to keep my distance from him, but it was also true that Marco didn't make it particularly easy for me.

“I'm sorry… it's just… look at all this—look at me. This is what happens when you hang out with the wrong people, Marco, and that includes me. And your parents have enough on their plate with your sister thinking she's a superhero.”

“Are you going to tell them?”

“What?”

“ _Everything_ …”

“No. But keep an eye on her; she'll probably catch a cold, at the very least.”

Marco nodded and turned to the door.

“Wait,” I said before he left. I went to my room, not convinced of what I was doing, and took the small package wrapped in craft paper that I had left on the bedside table that morning. “Happy birthday."

Marco seemed confused but also silently thrilled, though he said nothing. He took the gift and left. I closed my new Premium door and threw myself on the couch.

_You woke up with an intense chill. You opened your eyes slowly; everything was dark, you didn't know what time it was, but it seemed quite late. You sat down on the couch, rubbing your face in apathy, and wondered if you would ever be able to get rid of that perpetual fatigue. You wanted to go to bed, and yet you sat there listening to the hypnotic clink of a drop of water—a slow but constant sound, becoming more and more unrelenting each time._

_For a moment you couldn’t hear anything else. You decided to follow that resonance that led you to the bathroom. You checked the handles on the tap but everything seemed okay. Then, the sound was gone._

_You went to your bedroom with the intention of getting into bed, but stopped in your tracks, distracted by the intense blue light that came from the living room. You peeked out perplexed but not afraid. That surprised you: you didn't feel any fear. The glow was emanating from the neon lights of a huge aquarium as big as the living room itself. It didn’t make sense, but you approached it captivated, attracted by its unique display of vibrant colors. There were hundreds of fish of different species swimming briskly. You placed your index finger on the glass, stirring the interest of one of them, which approached, flapping gracefully, and sticking its mouth right to that very spot._

_You stood there gawking, playing with it like a little kid, until a mellow dazzle took you out of the stupor. It was an object, a very small one, on the other side of the aquarium, and it moved in your direction, very slowly, as though it was doing it in slow motion. You leaned closer, overcome by uncontrollable curiosity, but then you realized that the flashes of light were not derived from the object itself, but reflected from its polished surface. "Fuck!" you exclaimed, quickly stepping back when you comprehended that it was a bullet. You tripped over the couch just as the bullet went through the aquarium from side to side, cracking the glass and causing water to spill over the whole place like a huge flood._

I jumped up, desperately patting my chest in search of that bullet orifice capable of piercing flesh, bone and muscle. I found nothing, not even the perfect round hole, not even a trace of thick blood—just clothes, the ones I was wearing, and the sheets that covered my body. I dropped back onto the pillow with a heavy howling. I had no idea how I had got to my room, so, just in case, I lay there for a while, weary, waiting to see what might come next.

But nothing happened.

Convinced then that I wasn’t dreaming or suffering some sort of hallucination, I sat up, and checked the time on the clock on the bedside table. 13:15 pm. As though on cue, my stomach began to growl like a desperate tiger, pushing me out of the comfort of my bed into the kitchen. I didn't feel like preparing anything, not even heating up some of the food Mafalda had packed, so I appeased that famine with a bland sandwich. Leaning against the counter and looking through the hatch that connected the kitchen to the living room, I ate as I mentally balanced the state of the apartment. The couch was just as Vimini had left it, and the rest was still a complete mess.

After the bite, I started by putting the couch back and picking up some objects that had been thrown on the floor, including a couple of T-shirts, that for some unspeakable reason had ended up there. I took them into the bedroom and piled them on the mattress with the rest of the clothes that I was recovering as I moved around, discovering in the process of such a devious task that I was also missing two shirts and a sweater.

Arming myself with a patience that threatened to vanish like a mirage, I continued wandering around, picking up and tidying up, until the course of that series of calamitous misfortunes decided to place some broken glass in the way of my bare feet. It’s possible that never in my life have I spluttered such a quantity of rude barbarities one after the other. The broken glass belonged to a frame that was on the floor, and to which was still attached a photograph of my mother and me. The picture, along with the frame, had been an unsubtle gift from Mafalda, just after I moved here. We’d taken the pic during a trip to California after the whole divorce issue was settled. I was about six or seven years old, and my mother, still young and beautiful, was smiling again after a long time. The truth is that despite all we’d been through we looked happy.

I sat down on the floor at the foot of the bed and watched the photograph, as I hadn’t bothered to do when Mafalda had given it to me. A knot formed in my stomach, my pulse quickened, and I felt the rage of anger invade me. I took a cushion, sank my face into it and screamed—I screamed until I felt fire in my throat.

Appalled, I dressed in sweatpants and a bathrobe, and went out on the fire escape. It wasn’t snowing at that moment, but the sky was covered by a blanket of thick gray clouds that hovered over the buildings, draining the streets of all their color; accentuating the feelings of turbidity, confusion, and suffocation.

I lit a cigarette, hoping that it would give me a moment's rest, but the damn cellphone started off with its strategy of chronic inappropriateness. I’d muted it, but I could still hear it buzzing like a swarm of bees. I clung to the railing and closed my eyes; perhaps if I concentrated enough I could cancel out that sound. It was then when the words Barney had said to me the day we met echoed in my head, “Boy, if you can't express how you feel out loud, just write it down.”

Hours later, and after having found the notebook, _this_ notebook, I was sitting on the couch, examining the brownish green covers with suspicion, until some violent knocks against the door took me out of that moment of arcane mysticism abruptly.

I stood very still, staring at the entrance to my own apartment like someone looking at a place they don't recognize anymore. Then they rang the doorbell with weary insistence.

“Elio?”

I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until I exhaled a sigh of relief at Barney's voice, as he pounded on the door again, cursing like a sailor. When I opened I found him with his phone stuck to his ear—he looked at me as though I was an unexpected apparition, then hung up and punched me hard on the shoulder.

“Fuck, Elio! What in the world is wrong with you! You've been missing for a whole day; I thought you had a stroke or something after what happened the other night.”

I left the door open for him and went back to the couch. Barney came in, frowning as he examined the new Premium door. Then he turned around, noticing the state of the apartment.

“What the hell happened here?” he said, stunned.

“Guess…”

“No." He picked up a small ottoman and dragged it in front of me. “Shit, are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah… I wasn't home when they broke in.”

He looked around again, at the empty space left in the television cabinet, and the objects that were lying all over the place that I hadn’t yet had time to collect. Then he looked back at me. The doorbell slipped into the tête-à-tête before Barney could add anything. We both looked at each other. I put a finger to my lips asking him to be silent, then got up very carefully, trying not to make noise, and went to the door as quietly as I could. I was positive that Barney was watching me as though I had lost my mind for good and without remedy. I glanced through the peephole and instantly recognized the tangle of ginger curls.

“Hello,” Marco said when I opened.

“Hello…”

“Your clothes. They’re clean,” he stretched out his arms, showing me the small pile of perfectly folded garments.

“You didn't have to do this, and I wasn't in any hurry either.”

“I know, but I didn't want my mom to see them around and start brooding… you know she's a little paranoid.”

I nodded and took the pile of clothes from him.

“How's your sister doing?” I asked.

“Good. She's starting to get a runny nose… but she's fine. Anyway, thanks. I mean, for everything: for taking care of Vimini and… for the gift. I really like it.”

“It's nothing,” I replied, determined to play it down.

“But I like it. I really do.”

He was silent, I assumed waiting for some kind of response from me, but again I opted for silence as a quick way out. Marco, visibly uncomfortable, shifted his body weight from one foot to the other.

“About the other day…” he said, blushing.

I shook my head. “Let's just forget about the other day, okay?”

Marco smiled, but it was not enough to dispel the disappointment that could clearly be read in his green eyes. Still, he said goodbye with dignity, setting out for the stairs without turning around once.

When I closed the door, Barney, who had evidently tuned in to Landing Radio with gusto, was watching me with sharp eyes.

“Don't say anything.” I threatened him.

“I wasn't going to say anything,” he replied, pretending to be scandalized.

I left my clothes on the bed before I went to the fridge and got two beers. I gave one to Barney and I sat on the couch with the other.

“You know I don't drink anymore.”

“That's why my fridge is full of non-alcoholic beer now.”

I took a long swallow while watching Barney and his inquisitive interest.

“Okay, look, I can't help it,” he finally said. “Gift? What gift? And what happened the other day? Come on, Elio! Have we stopped being friends and I didn’t know it? I feel highly outraged, just so you know. You used to tell me these things!”

“What did you come here for, Barney?”

“I've come to see you, fucking hell! Yesterday we called you because I wasn't sure if you'd go to see your mom or not, and you know how Barbara is when she puts her determination into something. _Call him_. _Ask him_. _Come on_ , _call him_. _Have you called him yet?_ But then you didn't answer and I started to get nervous; I thought something might’ve happened to you. And now I come here and find all this upside down.” He took a breath. “Do you think it was the same group that beat you up?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it was the group from last week or the week before that… what do I know.”

Barney backed off, straightening his wretched back. “What's wrong, Elio?”

“I'm sick of all this, Barney.”

“Elio, you knew it would end up like this, you don't get into this world of racketeers without assuming there’ll be consequences. We _both_ know that. And no matter how hard you try to prove otherwise, people end up finding out who you are. And let me tell you, in case you hadn't already realized it, my dear friend, that the heir of Pearl Company is a sweet-toothed target.”

“You know? I saw him the other day.”

“Who? Your father?”

“Yes, we were on the verge of bumping into each other. That’s what I call bad luck…”

“Did he say something to you?”

“I don't think he saw me; he was too busy talking to someone else.”

“And what did you do?”

“I tripped him,” I replied, putting more beer in my mouth.

Barney was quiet for a moment, and then we both started laughing.

“You're crazy, Elio.”

“I must say, though, that he has very good reflexes. I hope I'll be as agile at his age.”

For some reason that comment made Barney's expression switch completely. He cleared his throat and put his untouched beer on the floor.

“There's one thing I want to tell you,” he said, his voice expressing obvious nervousness. “I haven't told you before because I'm afraid Barbara and Grace will find out… I haven't heard from them in at least two months.”

“Who?”

“What do you mean, _who_? You know very well _who_ , Elio.”

“Well… That's a good sign, right?”

Barney looked at me in disbelief.

“Did the beating of the other day dent your brain? No, it's not a good sign. You know how these people fucking operate. I had to sleep with my phone hidden in a drawer, under mounds of clothes, and now all of a sudden they stop calling me? I'm scared, Elio. No, scared doesn't even come close. I'm _terrified_ that one day they'll show up at the restaurant with Barbara and Grace there, and—oh, my God!” He took his hands to his face in utter despair. “I can't pay them. I can't raise the money, and the restaurant is not doing well. And as if that wasn't enough, Julieta’s lost her job and Barbara’s thinking of hiring her. We can't afford it, and I don't know how to tell her or how to fix this. I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do…”

I couldn't bear to see him like that. That restaurant had been Barbara's dream for so many years, one that had been hard to achieve. They began to take it seriously about three years ago, but with only the poor salary Barney was now earning as a concierge and at his age –sixty-three at that time– the answer to granting a credit was always the same. Overwhelmed, Barney decided to ask for help through other ways, and although the conditions didn’t differ so much from the vile arts of an ordinary bank, their interest became much more dangerous as the repayment of the loan was delayed.

“Hiring Julieta isn’t a bad idea,” I said.

Barney looked at me like I'd really lost it.

“Are you listening to what I'm saying?”

“I do, and if you want my opinion, I think the best thing you can do is focus on trying to get the business up. You always mention what a good cook Julieta is, so hiring her is a good way to start changing things.”

Barney stood up, rubbing his temples and ranting in a low voice.

“You don't get it. You don't fukcing get it.”

“Of course I do, Barney—”

“No, you don't get it, Elio! You have no idea! They're going to come after my family and I won't be able to do anything to stop them. I got them into this.”

He sat down again, dejected.

“Barney, forget about the debt.”

“I can't. I can't…” he muttered between sobs.

“Barney, look at me. Barney, please look at me. Don't worry about that debt anymore. It's done, okay? It's over.”

His expression subtly transmuted from uneasiness to incredulity in a matter of seconds. Then he opened his eyes wide. As he watched me as though I had grown a second head all of a sudden, I got up with the empty beer bottle and threw it away.

“What’ve you done?” he asked, following me, standing on the other side of the hatch. “Elio, what’ve you done?”

“Helped a friend.”

He pressed his hands against his dark cheeks as though about to scream.

“I'm going to have a fit. You don't know what you've done, Elio, you have no idea—”

“I know pretty well what I've gotten myself into, Barney.”

“Benny Davis won't stop. You know that. And if he can turn a profit, just like Jamie did, he'll squeeze you to the max. Fuck, fuck this… Elio.”

“I'm not an idiot, Barney, I know how Benny is, but you have your family, you have Barbara and Grace. I—”

“You are part of my family, too. If anything happens to you, I'll never forgive myself.”

“Come on, man, trust me a little. I've got it all under control, believe me.”

He sat on one of the stools with his elbows resting on the worn-out laminate of my kitchen counter.

“You've got it all under control. Yes, I can see that…”

“This wasn't Benny's doing.”

“But it was a consequence! Damn it, Elio!”

The vibration of my cellphone leaked into the discussion, causing a brief digression, and I took advantage of it to start scrubbing the pots and pans that were beginning to mount up in the sink. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed by Barney, however.

“Is it him?” he asked.

“It’s a possibility.”

Barney got up and walked swiftly to where I had put my phone.

“Barney, no! Wait—”

“Mahelona,” he said, looking at the lit screen.

“Great…” I mumbled while drying my hands.

“Are you still in touch with him?”

“He showed up here the other day, and mentioned something he wanted to talk to me about. I don't know, I didn't pay much attention to him.”

“You're a magnet for all these kind of schemes, huh?”

“Some talent I had to have,” I joked.

Barney sat down on the stool; the comment didn't seem very funny to him.

“I can't just sit back and do nothing, Elio.”

“Barney, please don't do this to me. Everything’s okay.”

Needless to say, my arguments didn't convince him much, but Barney nodded nonetheless.

“Say whatever, but I feel indebted to you.”

“Listen to me, you don't owe me anything. But if it's gonna make you feel better, you can make it up to me by letting me date your daughter.”

“No fucking way! You go around flirting with every human being whose minimum requirement is to breathe—even with that poor boy. How old is he? Seventeen?”

“He turned twenty this week. And I don't flirt with him.”

“No? What about the gift, then?”

“I already told you it was his birthday this week.”

“Sure…”

“It was just a flash drive with music on it! A great collection of music—besides, I prefer them with more experience.”

“Like that whore you visit from time to time?”

Barney pursed his lips, instantly regretting having made that comment out loud, though it was certainly not the first time that he’d dropped a comment like that. I’d never told him what kind of relationship I had with Lita, so I couldn't blame him for coming to his own conclusions.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Never mind. Listen, I meant what I said before about Julieta,” I changed the muddled course of our conversation. “Use the money you've saved to pay off Benny's debt, renovate the restaurant and hire Julieta. You can specialize in something, I don't know, a dish that makes people go to your restaurant because there's no other place in Manhattan that does it better. I'm sure a few adjustments will help you rebuild the business. Word of mouth will do the rest.”

Barney listened with cautious interest, rocking his head as though that would help him absorb the information. Then he got up and stood there, considering.

“Were you going to tell me?” he asked without looking at me. “I mean, about Benny.”

“No. I knew you'd react exactly as you are doing: feeling guilty and responsible. So, no, I wasn't going to tell you.”

He smiled.

“I must go. Will you be all right?”

“Yeah. I'm going to sort all this mess once and for all.”

As he grabbed his coat, I noticed that it had started to snow again.

“Don't be long in coming to see us, okay? You know that, for some reason that avoids my sneaky judgment, the women in my house love to have you around.”

He winked at me and mumbled, _Thank you_ before he left.

The phone vibrated again.

I sat on the couch, just as before Barney had come in like a bolt from the blue. The notebook was still on the coffee table. I took it, opened it, and I studied the yellowish shade of its paper and the perfect fine lines of the grid. I caressed them, appreciating the almost imperceptible relief of the print. Then I felt a strange shudder that ran through me from my head to my toes. I slammed the notebook shut, inhaling the faint smell of damp paper, got up and threw it into the closet in the very place where I had found it.

The first thing I did the next day (after finally tidying the apartment) was to go out and buy a new coffee maker. I had managed to sleep eleven hours straight, quite an achievement. So for the first time in several days, I was beset by such a pilgrimage of excitement that even a morning at Macy's seemed like a fascinating plan, despite the more than predictable commotion of Christmas shopping.

“You're buying a great coffee maker," the friendly cashier said when it was my turn.

“I know, I've had one just like this,” I answered with a smile.

“Really? What happened? Did it break down?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“When did you buy it? Was it under warranty?” I tried to open my mouth but she chained a succession of recommendations of a bureaucratic nature that started (naturally) by calling them and explaining my problem. “Really, they have very good customer service.”

“I'm sure of it, but I don't have the patience for such things.”

“But it won't take long! Besides, and I know I shouldn’t be saying this,” she lowered her voice, “you'd save yourself some money.”

“Are you sure you don't take a commission?”

She laughed. “Oh, no, no, no; it's just that I had problems with mine and they treated me very well.”

“That's awesome, but I'd honestly rather buy a new one.”

“I can give you the number of the person who assisted me.”

“I appreciate that, but it's not necessary.”

“I'm sure that—”

“Can you charge me the _fucking_ coffee maker?”

Everyone within a three-foot radius of me took a step back. Including the cashier who had glued her back to the chair.

“I'm sorry…” I said after I promised myself that nothing could ruin this day. “Look, my ex actually took the coffee maker after we broke up and it still affects me.”

I pulled out my credit card and gave it to her. She took it with restraint even though she had planted the impersonal service employee smile on her face again.

Happy with my purchase, I decided to take a walk around the mall. At any other time, I would’ve preferred to jump barefoot onto a brazier holding a sack of potatoes, but the mass of unfamiliar faces running gleefully from store to store to the soundtrack of carols was somehow comforting. I assumed it was because of the phlegmatic air they were giving off, convinced that the biggest dilemma of the day for these people was where to get the cheapest gifts.

I stopped in front of the window of a clothing store, looking at the paper they had placed on the glass that announced they were looking for staff.

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here. What a coincidence.”

I turned around. There was Mahelona, carrying tons of shopping bags and again dressed, although with a little bit of informal gallantry, more like a Daniel than an agent of authority.

“Tell me about it… as if this city wasn't big enough.”

“Is there something wrong with your phone, Perlman? I've been trying to reach you for two days.”

“Don't you even rest on Thanksgiving, Mr. Officer? I've been a little busy…” I pulled out my cellphone and showed it to him.

“Sixty-three missed calls.” He whistled. “Who are you hiding from, Perlman?”

“I presumed you'd know; considering you seem to enjoy snooping in my business. Speaking of which, did you catch the thieves yet?”

“Did you file the complaint?”

“No.”

“I figured… which corroborates my theory that you know better than anyone who broke into your place—anyway, I see you're rather pragmatic; you've already bought yourself a new coffee maker.”

“I have many vices, what can I do. You've been shopping, too. Presents? It's funny; I've always had difficulty in separating work and personal life from certain professional areas. Mr. Dupire, my professor of Mathematical Finance, for example, I could never imagine him in his pajamas. Of course, I've seen you naked, so we could say that we've already crossed the barrier of tiresome formalism—I must confess, though, that I've always thought of you as a workaholic, so I still find it hard to place you in a festive, familiar atmosphere.”

Mahelona gave me one of his ductile smiles, which could well be interpreted as a gesture of disapproval or a display of complacency.

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

“I only show some verbal incontinence when I get nervous.”

“And I make you nervous, Perlman?”

“What can I say, you're full of surprises… and I don't like surprises.”

“It's Christmas, it's the season of surprises.”

“Maybe that's why I never liked it much.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” He took a deep breath, as though he suddenly needed to stop that shallow chatter, and it exhausted him already to return to the real reason why he had stopped in the first place. “We have to talk.”

“About what?”

“Have you had lunch?”

“No.”

“I invite you.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“I'll let you choose the place.”

I looked at him for a few seconds and then I smiled.

“Okay.”

Mahelona wanted to drive but the idea of riding in a police car, even though it didn't look like one, wasn't particularly appealing, so I insisted that we take the subway. It was almost a half-hour ride from 151 West to the East Village, where we ended up sitting in a poky restaurant, which had no more than four tables, but offered huge, delicious slices of pizza for one dollar.

“Didn't you know of a place greasier and more depressing than this?”

“Mr. Officer, this is just a sign that you can't lecture a New Yorker about New York. But since you ask, I'm a big fan of Eleven Madison Park, do you know it? French food. Exquisite. The menu is around $200 per person. The problem is you have to call beforehand, so be glad that even if you invite me, you won't spend more than five dollars for the meal. Besides, I have a slight suspicion that what you want to talk to me about involves people with large bank accounts, so I think we are safer in this den than anywhere else.”

“Okay." He leaned forward with an inexorable expression. “I want to make it clear right away that this is an unofficial meeting.”

“What does that mean? Is this a date?”

“You're not my type, Perlman.”

“You had no problem with that the last time we went out _unofficiously_.”

“There was too much alcohol involved.”

“That's offensive.”

“You're right—I don't know, maybe you just need to grow up a little. Now listen to me: my chiefs aren’t convinced about having you for this new case. So I'm risking my ass here by putting my trust in you. I want you to understand that this conversation is absolutely and utterly confidential. Is that clear?”

I took a bite of my slice of pizza and waved for him to continue talking.

“Do you know Jarvis’ Club?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I bet it does… Well, in a week's time there’ll be a private game; I won't go into detail because I'm convinced you know the kind of thing I'm talking about. What you probably don't know, like most people, is that Jarvis’ Club as such has really only been a front for a while now, and that Joel Jarvis, its owner, has absolutely no business there. He's just a puppet under the Irishman who took over the club two years ago and has set up an illegal, high standard casino under its facade. This casino is only accessible to exclusive members, people from a list that apparently is supervised by the Irishman himself, so, as you can imagine, it’s very difficult to get in unless you have some contacts. I know someone who owes me a favor and who could extend an invitation for you. After all, _Gambler_ , you've been making a name for yourself all these years, disregarding our agreement, haven't you?”

I leaned back in my seat.

“I don't want to be evil-minded, Mahelona, but are you using that extortion trick again?”

“Perlman, this isn’t only an opportunity to dismantle one of the largest illegal casinos in this country; it's a unique chance to get our hands on the Irishman. Are you aware of what that means? No, probably not; the fuck you know.”

Mahelona began to devour his pizza with a nervous craving as I stared at him and organized the information in my head.

“I suppose catching the Irishman will bring a reward for you, too, huh?”

“Sergeant, if all goes well,” he said between bites.

“I figured… and what's in it for me?”

“Are we really going to have this conversation again? Perlman, do you realize you could be in jail right now?”

“A year, at most. With good conduct and a good lawyer, which I'm sure you know I can afford, I could cut the sentence in half or even less. Besides, considering that I'm just a gambler and that I don't participate in the organization of the scams… How long could it be in the end? Three months?” I leaned on the table. “A piece of cake. And all that without even mentioning the enormous and feasible possibility of simply being sentenced to bail.”

Mahelona stared at me, chewing slowly.

“You're crazy. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“A few times. The thing is, Mr. Officer, that I'm sick of being blackmailed.”

“This isn't blackmail, Perlman. Think about it, not only would you help break a root of corruption whose ramifications you’d be unable to begin to understand; I'm offering you a new chance to start over, _again_.”

“Fuck that! I know for a fact that if you’d wanted to, you would’ve arrested me long ago, but you didn't because deep down you wanted to leave me running around like a dog without owner so that I could continue to associate with all that lowlife. That way, when the time came, not only would you have a leash to tie me up with, but I’d be involved enough to get into the wolf's lair without the wolf having the slightest suspicion that I was really a henchman of the hunter.”

Mahelona took the glass of water to his mouth and drank without taking his eyes off mine.

“I need to go out for a smoke,” he said when he put the glass back on the table.

Mahelona paid the paltry bill and went outside. When I joined him he was taking a packet out of his coat; he offered me a cigarette.

“I'm quitting…” I said, but I took it anyway.

I let him light the cigarette and, for a few seconds, that closeness to him proved pleasant under the bitter cold. It wasn't snowing at the time, but the radio had announced that it’d be just a truce for a few hours. We spent a long time like that, smoking, but not talking.

“I want the painting,” I said then, without hesitation.

“What painting?”

“Luster's painting.”

“How the hell do you—" He didn't bother to finish the question; he looked away and started laughing. “Of course, you already knew all this.”

“I really only knew about the game and about Luster; I had no idea about the rest.”

“The painting will be requisitioned with everything else. It's evidence.”

“It's the painting or nothing.”

I didn't bail out; for whatever reason Mahelona was capable of stirring up all this absurd arrogance in me, and I wasn’t willing to withdraw now. The detective blinked in disbelief, as was expected.

“Are you kidding me? Who the hell do you think you're talking to, Perlman. You may not be going to jail, but I have enough evidence to bust you anyway if I wanted to.” He stood in front of me. Mahelona was an inch taller than I was, so that motion did its job and forced me to take a step back as I found the wall of the building behind us. "Here's the deal, Perlman: either you accept it or I don't bother anymore, and justice will decide what to do with you. But don't ever let it cross your mind that you're in a position to negotiate.”

“All right,” I said, moving aside and turning away from him. “I'll see you around, then.”

I walked down the street towards the subway. The doors of the car were about to close when Mahelona rushed in, dodging some people, and came straight to where I was sitting, taking the empty seat right in front of me. I tried to ignore his presence for at least two stops, although I did give him the occasional sibylline glance, ready to challenge him if that was what he was looking for, but Mahelona looked absent, his eyes lost and his thoughts elsewhere. At the third stop, a man who was sitting next to me, giving off a substantial stench of cheap liquor, got up to leave. I noticed a boy making the move to approach, but Mahelona quickly took that place.

“You’re desperate to become a Sergeant, huh?” I said, defiantly.

“Forget that.”

When the doors closed and there were no more than six of us left in the car, Mahelona grabbed my arm and dragged me to the seats on the far end, separating us from the rest of the passengers.

“It's not about you or me, Perlman,” he said firmly, raising his voice just enough so that only I could hear him. “You have no idea what that man's business is like, or how many people he has bought, threatened, and extorted. Drug dealers, pimps… he's got a lot of scum at his beck and call. To give you an idea, they only managed to catch him once and he was cleared of all charges, and that was 25 years ago. He's got judges, politicians and businessmen eating out of his fucking hand. Who the fuck do you think is instigating Benny Davis, huh?” I couldn't contain my reaction of surprise in time. “I've told you a million times, Perlman, I know _everything_. Most of the biggest clubs in town are his.” He let out an intense, dry sigh. “That bastard brags about owning this fucking island. You understand?”

I’d never seen Mahelona so distressed, he looked even older.

“If he has such power, what makes you think it’ll be different this time?”

“I don't know… I may not get anything out of this, but I'm not going to sit idly by; I'm going to do everything I can to stop that son of a bitch.”

“That’s if he doesn’t get rid of you first,” I said without thinking. Mahelona sank into his seat. “ _Shit_. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

“No, no, you're right," he said bitterly. “I'll talk to a fellow court clerk about the painting.” I was about to say something but he wouldn't let me. “Perlman, if you want that fucking painting, I'll give it to you, all right? But I need to know that you’re with me.” He looked behind him, over his shoulder, as though to make sure no one else was listening to our conversation, and then he leaned in closer. “Even the police department isn’t free from all this corruption. I haven't known for a long time who I can or should trust, but for some incomprehensible reason I trust you. It’s time for you to decide whether you want to take the path of the heroes or the villains.”

“You speak like my nine-year-old neighbor… What if I don't want to go either way? Because, honestly, I don't believe in that gibberish; things aren't black and white, and in between there's a whole spectrum of greys in which, call me a coward if you like, I feel quite comfortable.”

Mahelona nodded, rose from his seat and pulled out a pair of leather gloves from his coat pockets.

“Wait, where’re you going?”

“Did you make your decision, Perlman?”

I wanted to say yes and end it once and for all; I had already more than enough with having to deal with Benny Davis, but there was some despondency in Mahelona's eyes that made me choke on my words.

“I… I don't know…” The train started to slow down. “Oh, fuck! I need to think about it.”

“All right, do it. I'm getting off here,” he said, and left the car, leaving me alone and orphaned of purpose.

When the train started to move again, there was only a middle-aged couple and the boy who was about to sit next to me left. The couple sat placidly near the door. The woman had her eyes closed and rested her head on her husband's shoulder. The only thing I could hear was the train rattling in a daze. I noticed the boy, who had chosen to find a place for himself on the other side. He was watching his phone, although he occasionally gave me some sneaky looks. I leaned my head against the glass and took advantage of the moment of silence before the stampede of tourists woke me up as we approached the heart of the city.

I couldn't stop thinking about what Mahelona had told me. Barney was right, I did attract all kinds of trouble like shit attracts flies. I took my hand to my right cheek where the consequences of meeting Big Muzzy were still visible. Then I remembered poor Christopher.

I got up rashly, startling my fellow travelers for a moment. The woman, who was still half asleep, returned to her position without flinching. Her husband, however, kept his eyes on me as he watched me walk resolutely to where the boy sat.

“Hi.” I smiled. “Hey, you don't happen to have a pen and paper, do you?”

He looked at me curiously.

“Let me have a look,” he replied, smiling back at me. He reached into his backpack and pulled out an agenda. “You’re lucky.”

He tore off a sheet of paper and held it out to me with a pen.

“Perfect.”

I stepped away a little and took out my cellphone. I ignored the indecent amount of missed calls, and looked in the phonebook for the Irishman’s number that I had copied from Christopher. I quickly wrote it down on the paper, put it in my pocket, and erased any trace of the number from my phone.

“Thank you very much,” I said to the boy, returning the pen.

The speaker announced the next stop. I retrieved the bag with the coffee maker and waited for the train reaching the station. Once on the street, I looked for a bar, and entered the first one I found just one block up. It was a small, dark place. There were only two men sitting at the bar, so engrossed in their drinks that they barely wavered at my arrival.

“Excuse me?” I asked the big man behind the bar. “Do you have a phone I can use?”

The waiter looked me up and down stiffly.

“At the back," he replied in a low voice.

I walked down a narrow corridor, which no doubt, judging by the sticky stink, led to the toilets. Before I reached the end there was a shady booth where an old, dusty telephone hung on the wall. I took out the paper and left it on the shelf while I looked for some coins. I didn't know why I was doing that, but I still dialed the number and waited. My heart was pounding eagerly, accompanying an increasingly agitated breath. There was a sharp signal, and then a mechanical voice announcing with lassitude that the number I was calling didn’t exist.


	6. FOUR

“Look who has decided to grace us with his presence.”

Barbara was standing by a table, charging the only two customers in the restaurant who were just getting up to leave when I came in. I kissed her on the cheek and sat down at the bar. Grace came out of the kitchen, walking like the arrant diva she was even with her apron on.

“My two favorite women. I’m a lucky man.”

“How do you feel,” Grace asked. “The bruises don’t look too bad today.”

“Well, you know, they do add a certain charm, but they didn't hurt too much.”

“A man flaunting his virility, wow, I've never seen that before. Can I get you something?”

“Black coffee, please.”

Barbara joined us, pushing the swing door with her hips; she brought with her a plate of rice pudding that she left in front of me.

“If you keep treating me like this, I’ll never leave. This rice pudding is so good. Please congratulate Julieta for me.”

“You’ll be able to do it yourself soon; Julieta will be working here,” she said, visibly thrilled. “Although, I know my husband's big mouth has told you about it.”

“It’s possible that he mentioned something here and there…”

Barbara, whose misgiving didn’t need strong stimuli, didn’t swallow my cop-out, but smiled before returning to the kitchen.

“Speaking of the old man, where is he?” I asked.

Grace circled the bar, carrying two coffees, and sat down next to me.

“He went out to run some errands. Or that's what he said… sometimes I think he just walks around the block to get rid of his tasks or just to avoid raising suspicions about his scams.” She took my spoon and tried a mouthful of the rice pudding. “It’s true that it’s very good. I'm surprised you haven't met Julieta yet."

“I’m just as stunned. Though the truth is that until I heard your mother talk about her, I thought your father was trying hard to look like a rather implausible adulterer.”

I wrinkled my face in disgust and Grace hit me hard on my arm. Then she looked over her shoulder into the kitchen.

“I want to show you something,” she said, lowering her voice.

She pulled her stool closer, barely leaving any space between us, took out her cell phone, which she kept in her apron pocket, and showed me a photograph. It seemed to have been taken in a studio; Grace was sitting on an antique couch, Chester style, wearing a voluptuous yellow dress that contrasted exquisitely with her dark skin tone.

“Wow, you look beautiful—though that's nothing new.”

“Do you like it? It's for a feature about future talents that will be published in the New York Times. I know mom will be more indulgent, but I'm sure dad will have a fit as soon as he sees it. Well, you know him.”

“A feature? How did it happen?”

“I've been working on a short film for a few weeks, I haven't told you? Anyway, a colleague of a colleague put me in contact with these other people and—I don't know, I still can’t believe it. They took a few pictures and… well, I'm waiting for them to call me for the interview that will accompany the article.”

“Sounds nice.”

“You could make the effort to sound a little more convincing.”

I pretended to be shocked. “I'm _happy_!”

“But?”

“But the show business is so disturbing… and you know what they say about the things that some actresses have had to do in order to get a career.”

“Tell me, is there a business that isn’t sexist? Besides, I'm going to be behind the camera, imposing my rules like a soulless dictator and enjoying every second of it.”

“Until you walk in front of the lenses, because that's inevitable, and then they won't let you go anywhere.”

“Have you tried? You are so photogenic; I should make a test with you someday, I'm sure the camera loves you.”

“Oh, please, stop; I'm blushing.”

Grace smiled sweetly and stroked my jaw.

“You're so adorable.”

“Thanks, even though it didn't sound promisingly erotic.”

We both laughed.

“When will it be published?” I asked.

“Next week, I think. But tomorrow will come out a teaser article in the magazine; they said they were going to use one of my pics.”

Grace got up and took our two cups as Barney walked in, bringing with him an icy breeze that crept into the restaurant like an unwelcome visitor. He looked tired but tried to put on a smile when he saw Grace. Apart from that, he greeted me with a short grunt.

“It's terribly cold out there.” He sat down next to me and took off his gloves. “How are you? Did you get any sleep?”

“Yes, I slept like a baby.”

“I'm glad,” he said, placing his huge hand on my back.

Grace offered her father a hot drink and then walked away to clear the table that had been occupied before I came in. Barney watched her like he was about to lose something.

“I need to smoke,” I said.

“Weren't you quitting?”

I kicked him and pointed to the door for him to follow me without any more whining. On the street, the cold broke the bones and faces of all those who dared to defy the weather.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“Do you want the painstaking version with all the gory details, or the one I bestow on the rest of the audience who’d like to hear my fluctuations as an act of mere courtesy?”

“Whatever you prefer.”

“I needed a moment alone to think.”

“That doesn't sound that extreme. What do you need to think about?”

“I don't know, Elio… everything? I feel there’s an anguish inside me that clings to my chest, as if everything could go wrong at any moment.”

He took my cigarette and gave it a puff before handing it back to me. I couldn't remember the last time I’d seen Barney smoke.

“I told you not to worry about that.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…" He waved his hand unwillingly. “I had an argument with Barbara yesterday. She doesn't understand why I had some money _saved_ and didn’t tell her about it before. Then she called Julieta; you know that when she has good news she just can’t help herself—so she invited her to dinner to tell her about the contract. Julieta was so excited… I told them about your ideas, and they thought they were great. In fact, Julieta is going to prepare a tasting menu or something like that tonight, to try different dishes and make some decisions. I’d like you to come and give us your opinion.”

“You don't waste your time, that's good. And I appreciate it, Barney, but I don't like to judge others’ work, especially if I don't know the person.”

“Well, here’s the perfect opportunity for you two to finally meet. Julieta is fantastic.”

“Wait a second there, this isn't some kind of blind date or some shit like that, is it? I'm 28, I'm not a kid; I can handle myself.”

“Hey! Relax, Casanova. First, I don't think you're her type and second, Julieta is too much of a woman for you.”

“Excuse me? Place and time.”

Barney laughed, fully satisfied.

“At seven at our house.”

At 6:56 p.m. I was ringing the doorbell at the Nichols' apartment. They also resided on the Lower East Side, about five blocks from where I lived, in an apartment they had bought as newlyweds—a bargain back then they had accidentally come across. It wasn't particularly big or beautiful, but it was more than enough for the three of them. It had hardly changed over the years I’d known them. Barney hated the wallpaper that covered each and every wall from the entrance to the small bathroom. He often voiced an untamed desire to tear it off as one does with dead skin, but he didn’t want to pay a two-bit botcher and he was inherently lazy.

With its usual display of importunity, my cell phone also showed up to the soiree the moment Barney opened the door. I hadn’t received a call for a few hours; this time, however, who knows if out of curiosity or tedium, I decided to check who it was. Benny. I muted it and put it back inside my parka.

“Is it him?” Barney asked.

“No.”

“For someone who plays poker with adamant ease, you sure are lying through your teeth, Elio.”

He stepped aside to let me in. I hung my parka on the rack, hoping that we could ignore the noise of the phone during the evening.

“A sweater and a shirt,” Barney said, examining my attire with amused interest. “Very neat. You're coming for it all, huh?”

“Whatever I can do to make you eat that smugness of yours.”

Barney grabbed my arm tightly.

“Listen to me, I love you, Elio, but Julieta is not a stray floozy, okay? She's a good friend of our family, so you better behave.”

I lightly punched him in the stomach and pulled away. The kitchen was a hive of activity and when Barbara came out she was vigorously fanning herself with a piece of cardboard.

“Elio! Have you been here long? I haven't heard the doorbell.”

She came over to give me a hug.

“I just got here. I don't know what you're cooking up in there but it smells great.”

“The credit goes to Julieta. That woman has a patience of gold. I've offered to help her and I'm already going crazy. But come on, come on, let me introduce you to her.”

She grabbed my hand and dragged me into the kitchen. Julieta was tasting the sauce of one of the dishes she was preparing with her finger.

“Oops. I'm sorry,” she said, covering her mouth with a napkin. “You caught me.”

I had to admit that despite having presented myself with such sturdy determination, I hadn’t formed any kind of expectations about the night, much less about Julieta. First of all, I had accepted the invitation because I really wanted to help them in any way I could. On the other hand, I had agreed with the sole intention of pestering Barney. But I realized that, even though they talked a lot about her, I knew absolutely nothing about this woman. The little they had told me, besides her cooking skills and the fact that she was Mexican, had been the fortuitous way they had met at a complicated time in Julieta's life. However, they had never gone into detail and I had never bothered to look into it further. For some reason, I had imagined Julieta being older, close to Barbara’s age, but now I didn't think she was much older than me. She had golden skin and dark eyes, and her black hair was cut along her jawline, with large curls framing her face.

“So you’re the famous Elio,” she said as she approached.

“Well, it depends on what you've been told.”

“Mostly good things.”

I looked sideways at Barney who shrugged his shoulders.

“They’ve also been generous with what they say about you—that you're a great cook, and from what I see and smell they don't seem to be exaggerating.”

“It's nothing very elaborated, but I think they could be interesting ideas. I hope you really like them,” she said, turning to attend to the pan she had on the fire.

“Elio loves your rice pudding,” Barbara added.

“Seriously?”

“Oh _, c'est exquis._ ”

“French, huh?”

“Ignore him, he's a show-off,” Barney said.

Julieta laughed.

“It's my grandmother's recipe; very simple to prepare actually. I can teach you how to make it whenever you want.”

There was no doubt that this was a harmless comment that meant exactly what it implied, but I didn’t resist the temptation of throwing an explosive look in Barney’s direction who was standing by the door with lips pressed tightly together and an immutable expression on his face. Then I turned my attention back to the two women who were still busy with dinner.

“Do you need a hand?” I asked.

“Yes, get out of the way and set the table,” Barbara said.

We went back to the living room where I helped Barney extend the table so we could be more comfortable. Barney, who had left his obduracy behind, was watching me with a stupid smile of achievement planted on his face.

“I knew you'd like her,” he said.

“Oh, wow, what about the threats from just a few minutes ago?”

“I maintain them, but I’m sure that you came here believing that you were above this encounter, flaunting that arrogance that you know how to hide but not as good as you think.”

“You’re offending me deeply.”

“It breaks my heart, my friend, but seeing the look on your face when you saw Julieta was well worth the affront.”

“I don’t know what look you’re talking about. Where's Grace?”

“She said she had some things to sort out and couldn’t stay.”

In the end, the dinner developed into a pleasant evening during which the conversation flowed smoothly. I lost count of the number of times we congratulated Julieta on her work, and although she had confessed to being a little nervous, she seemed quite satisfied. Her idea, she said, was to address the fast food crowd but offering something different, from crêpes filled with meat, mushrooms and goat cheese to the typical Mexican tacos. She had also prepared two varieties of burgers and _huevos rancheros_ —although my favorite were without question the enchiladas. As for dessert, she’d opted for _churros_ and, of course, rice pudding.

“Everything was delicious, Julieta,” Barney commented once more. “Although I feel wretched because Elio didn't let me try the enchiladas.”

Barbara's eyes shone with enthusiasm, and there was no way to blame her; this new phase for the restaurant was crucial. I was happy for them, even though Barney was trying hard, and failing miserably for anyone who paid attention, to pretend to have his full attention on the conversation.

Once we were done, we cleared the table and then Barney and I sat on the couch after the two women kicked us out of the kitchen again. We stayed silent for a long time, which was not usual.

“What are you thinking about, Barney?”

“I’m contemplating the remodeling that awaits us.”

“You lie even worse than I do.”

“That's why I don't play cards,” he said, and then snorted. “Why is Benny calling you?”

“How many times will I have to ask you to forget about that?”

“How many times will I have to tell you that I can't?”

“Look, it's been a wonderful evening; I refuse to have this conversation now.”

I got up, leaving him there with his words on the tip of his tongue, and peeped into the kitchen.

“How are you doing?”

“We're done. I think my stuff is all here,” Julieta said as she sorted the contents of a plastic basket.

“Do you need help with that?” I asked

“Not really.”

“Come on, let me give you a hand.”

Julieta looked at Barbara who was watching us with a playful smile.

“I live only two floors away and there’s the elevator, but if you insist…”

The two women laughed.

“Let him feel useful.” Barbara said. “He’s not often so chivalrous.”

“You all are determined to sink my self-esteem into a bottomless pit today."

Julieta approached Barbara and put her arms around her. “Thank you so much, you have no idea how much I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

“My girl, thank _you_.”

In the living room, Julieta said goodbye to Barney, who did his best not to cross his gaze with mine as she took my parka off the rack while I carried the basket that weighed more than I’d expected.

“I think someone’s calling you,” Julieta said as we stood in the elevator.

“What?”

“Your phone. It's vibrating.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Do you want to take it?”

“No, no. It's not important.”

The elevator stopped on the fifth floor just in time. We walked down the hall in silence until we reached one of the last apartments.

“Leave the basket by the door, I'll take care of it tomorrow.”

While Julieta got comfortable and dropped my parka on the couch I took a discreet look around. The apartment seemed just as big as Barbara and Barney's, although the layout was different. Here the living room merged into a small kitchen, and unlike the Nichols’ there was no trace of dated wallpaper on the walls.

“Have you ever drunk mezcal?” She asked as she entered the kitchen.

“Mezcal? No, I don't think so.”

“It’s a typical Mexican drink.”

“To be honest, when it comes to Mexican gastronomy I'm a real ignoramus: tacos, guacamole, tequila…” I said, sitting on the other side of the bar that separated the cooking area from the living room.

“At least you've tried tequila.”

“Only once, and I almost fainted.”

Julieta laughed.

“This is going to be fun, then." She picked up a bottle and placed it on the counter along with two liqueur-glasses. “Mezcal comes from the same plant as tequila but is much stronger. For years it was considered a poor people's drink—it definitely helped to keep them _happy_ during their hard work. I remember that my grandma drank a small glass every day,” she explained as she filled the glasses and offered me one. “Don't think about drinking it all at once or I assure you that we will have to call an ambulance. _Salud_.”

Copying her, I wet my lips with a hesitant sip that was enough for the distillate to carbonize my mouth and throat. I didn’t even make the pretense of keeping my composure while Julieta laughed at me without any trace of compassion.

“Fucking hell… you could disinfect an entire operating theater with this stuff.”

“ _Bésalo_. You have to kiss it—use the first sips to warn your body… and you’ll see how you’ll be able to taste the different notes.”

“Okay, since this is clearly going to take some time, why don't you tell me where you learned to cook so well?”

“My grandmother taught me, I’ve never known a more hardworking woman—Barbara reminds me so much of her. She’d get up early in the morning to make us breakfast, clean the house, and then go to work in the fields. When she finished, she’d come back to make us lunch, and then she’d return to work until dinner time, which she also prepared, and she never went to sleep, no matter how tired she was, until we were all in bed. Her strength was incredible. Or so she had us believe. I really wanted to learn how to cook so I could help her. We were a very poor family, so we all had to do our part.”

“Do you miss her?”

“She died a few years ago; I don't have much to miss there now, honestly.”

“Is that the reason why you decided to come to New York?”

“I’m afraid it's a little too soon to talk about that.”

Her response was kind but succinct. I didn’t insist; you didn’t have to be very sharp-eyed to realize that this was a delicate matter. So we drowned out the silence with more liquor.

“You have a very nice apartment,” I said after a while.

She smiled, probably noticing my demure attempt to resume the conversation with a neutral topic, away from family tribulations. I turned around on the stool and examined the living room. There wasn't much furniture, but the little she had was tastefully placed. Attached to the back of the couch was a simple, narrow white dresser on which were displayed a few photographs, all of which showed Julieta with a small child.

“His name is Diego," she said behind me.

“Is he yours? I mean—”

Julieta laughed.

“The nine hours of labor guarantee that he is…" She paused for a second, studying me carefully. “I'm going to be honest with you, Elio, during these years I've met some men and I can assure you that the way they react to these pictures tells me a lot about them. If I feel that I’m going to waste my time, one night is more than enough. And if it's worth it… well, I don't really know because that has never been the case.”

She lifted her glass and drank. I let myself be carried away by her spirit, following her movements with mine while I wondered how many men had been here, and also what kind of reaction they’d shown towards the pictures and, therefore, what mine revealed. Julieta's clairvoyant sharpness seemed to be on par with Barbara's, and she immediately sensed what was going through my mind.

“Relax, Elio. You have the Nichols' vote of confidence. That adds up to a lot of points.”

We resolved the awkward digression with the clink of our glasses and drank in a much more pleasant tranquility.

“You’re right, once you get used to it, it’s not bad at all,” I said, savoring the smoked flavor.

“Yeah, but be careful, it can get you drunk without you even noticing.”

“I can feel that. Where is he?” I asked, pointing to the photographs.

“He’s with a friend of mine. Her son and Diego get along very well, and they love spending time together. She offered to look after him for a few days while I took care of the redundancy issue and all that stuff. It was really sudden; I didn't expect it at all.”

“Let's toast to the changes for the better, then.”

In one gulp we finished what was left.

“Okay, so what about you, Elio? What do you do?”

“That's a good question for which I'm not sure I have an answer. I don't know, I guess I'm taking some time off right now to get my life back on track, but I've wasted too much time fooling around, so I'm afraid it's going to take longer than I'd like.”

“Is this fooling around the reason for the bruises?”

I smiled and nodded in embarrassment; sometimes I forgot that my face was like a journal that recounted without subtlety the most mournful events of my chaotic existence. I stood up and walked into the kitchen to take the empty glass to the sink, but Julieta took them out of my hand.

“No need for that," she said, setting both glasses aside.

“The food was mouthwatering, and this after-dinner conversation was very nice too. We should do it again—as long as you feel like it, and the Nichols don't take over your free time too much.”

“Whenever you want. Now you know where to find me.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Julieta.”

I offered her a hand but she made no move.

“Are you always so given to these formalities?”

I outlined a wide smile and got closer to her, placing my lips on her cheek and letting the shyness masked by politeness evaporate along with the alcohol bubbling in my veins. I felt her warm breath on my neck and noticed how her fingers curled up on the back of my head. Our mouths met without unwillingness—first gentle and refined, then curious and tempting, and finally driven by a desire that was born from a starving urgency.

“I want to make it clear that I'm not looking for anything serious right now,” Julieta said between kisses.

“Me neither.”

We moved awkwardly, lips locked and hands exploring our bodies over our clothes, until we stumbled over the couch and landed on top of my parka. But that being from hell and that apparently held an unheard of grudge against me, took the reins of that effusive display, making it clear that carnal pleasures were forbidden for the time being. My phone vibrated with an agonizing insistence, I could feel it against my thigh. Julieta didn’t seem to notice or perhaps just didn’t care; she kissed me fiercely while fiddling with my belt buckle until she succeeded to make way for a hand to slip masterfully into my pants. But there was no welcome waiting for her there, unfortunately. My brain had disconnected with the central part of my body, leaving it inert and unreceptive, while my head kept processing names and more names: Benny, Mahelona, the Irishman, Luster and his fucking painting, Marco, Vimini, Barney, Barbara, Grace, the restaurant, Julieta and the mezcal that was starting to turn my stomach.

“Elio…”

I moved away from her and sat on the other end of the couch.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry…” I said quietly.

“Hey, it's okay… What's wrong? You look pale. Are you sick?”

That moment had all the chances to become the most pathetic and humiliating ever in my whole life.

“No, no, don't worry, it's nothing, I’m good—I mean, I’m not good but… I'd better go.”

I got up, fastening my belt with the weariness of a lost soul. And there it was again. That damned buzzing sound was the only noise in the whole apartment. We both stared at my parka until I furiously picked it up, looking for the phone, and with the determination of a madman out of his mind, I went to the other side of the living room with the firm intention of throwing it out of the window. Julieta ran after me.

“Elio! Elio!” She stopped me halfway, ripping the phone out of my hands. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Julieta was watching me between confusion and reservation. I had no idea what her other dates had been like and I had no interest in finding out, but I was absolutely sure that this night had to take the cake as the most disastrous of all.

The screen lit up again on the palm of her hand.

“Who is it?” I asked without thinking.

“Someone named Marco.”

I took the phone away from her immediately but not relieved. Why was Marco calling me? Moreover, why was Marco calling me at that hour? The screen darkened, letting an uncertain calm fall over us.

“It's my neighbor,” I said, as though that would explain anything.

Julieta moved her shoulders lightly like she didn't know what else to do. I imagined her thinking about how to get rid of that strange lunatic she was forced to be nice to out of simple gratitude to the Nichols.

“I'm sorry,” I said again.

“It's okay.”

“Can I have a glass of water?”

“Sure…”

Julieta approached the sink with calmness worthy of admiration.

“Come on, sit down,” she said when she came back.

“Seriously, I don't want to detain you any longer.”

Julieta looked at me with an empty expression, as though just a few minutes ago we hadn't been about to tear off our clothes like two animals in heat.

“Look, I know we don't know each other, but if you need to talk I'm a good listener… and if you don't, well, just take your time,” she said.

I was about to refuse that kindness I didn’t deserve but Julieta tilted her head; she was done hearing vague excuses.

“Well, yeah… I really need to talk to someone, but I don't even know where to start,” I said, dropping myself on the couch. “I guess the best way to put it is… I've gotten into a dark cave and now I can’t find the way out.”

“Does that have anything to do with the _fooling around_ you talked about before?”

“It's more than that. I've done something to help someone I love, but I'm not sure that it has really helped.”

“It's about the Nichols, isn't it?” She said without a trace of doubt.

“What do you know?” I asked, alarmed.

“Not too much; Barbara told me that yesterday she and Barney argued, although she didn't tell me why, and I've seen Barney acting much more apathetic than usual for weeks now.”

I shook my head restlessly.

“I know I shouldn't be telling you this… Barbara has no idea.” I snorted, defeated. “Barney owed a lot of money to a man and as he wasn’t able to pay it back I decided to settle his debt on my own. Now that man wants me to do something else for him but I know that if I accept, after that request will come another and then another. But I also know that if I don't, he’ll use the Nichols as a weapon to put me between a rock and a hard place. And on top of that there's this other person who—well, there’s another person who also expects me to get into this same game for totally different reasons. I've been avoiding my phone for days because both parties want me to make a decision, but I don't know what to do. Whatever I decide, I'm fucked.”

She kept quiet for a moment.

“To me this sounds like your problem is that you make decisions thinking more about others than yourself, and sometimes we have no choice but to be a little selfish, Elio. When I got pregnant the father of the baby didn't want to believe it was his, so he disappeared. But after a few weeks he showed up again, completely drunk. He confronted me, accusing me of being a liar and a whore, and screaming that I had to get rid of that _thing_. He slapped me so hard that I fell to the ground; then came the punches and kicks… I woke up in the hospital. You can't imagine how anxious I was thinking the motherfucker had gotten his way. But the doctors said that surprisingly the baby was fine. I remember thinking that if such a small, fragile creature could survive something like that; I had to do it too. But my family didn’t take the news well, only my grandma showed her support, promising to take care of me as long as she could. Two months before the baby was born she passed away.”

Her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears.

“When Diego was born I was alone and feeling so miserable that I didn't even want to see him. I took refuge at a friend's house, and she told me that I had to get away from it all as soon as possible, but how could I leave my life and family behind just like that? My friend suggested buying a diary or something and writing down everything I was feeling. And as silly as it sounds, it helped me. That's when I decided to buy a one-way ticket to a foreign country and start over. And I did it for me and for my child, no one else. I admit that when I landed I was terrified and I couldn't shake the feeling that I had made a big mistake. I barely spoke the language and felt so insignificant… and then I met Barbara and Barney.” She smiled. “My grandma used to say that patience is one of the most important virtues in a human being, and that if we know how to wait, good things will come to us in the end. Being afraid of what might happen is expected. I have spent six years watching my back for fear of seeing that bastard popping up out of nowhere. But Elio, you can't let fear make the decisions for you. You've done something good for someone, but it's time to think about what's best for you.”

I had listened to her in awe. I could hardly imagine that someone with such a serene and warm personality could carry such a dark story on her shoulders.

“If that guy shows up here I swear I'll break his legs,” I said, stupidly.

Julieta smiled tenderly.

“If that _pendejo_ shows up here, I'll break his legs myself. As for the rest, I think that what you need is to calm down, stop for a second and think. You need to clear your mind. You can start with the simple things, like I did: take a blank piece of paper and write. Getting rid of all the accumulated frustration will help you see things differently.”

Julieta's words had touched a sensitive key. I hadn't noticed but my hands were shaking. I needed a good dose of fresh air and a cigarette or two, no matter the order. Although the best thing, for the sake of my mental health, would be to go home and get some sleep. Actually, I could go out, have a cigarette and then go home and rest. Julieta was right; I had to clear my head.

“I must go,” I said, getting up.

Julieta followed me to the door, a little confused by my reaction, but said nothing.

“Thank you. I mean, thanks for listening to me, I appreciate your words, really, they’ve helped me—I guess. And again, I'm sorry. I don't blame you if you don't feel the same but it’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

I instinctively reached out to say goodbye. To my surprise and especially to my relief, she took my hand, stood on her tiptoes and planted an affectionate kiss on the corner of my mouth.

“Take care, Elio.”

The ride home on the subway felt strangely long, so as soon as I got home I lay down on the bed and fell asleep almost instantly. The next day I woke up with only one mission in mind. I made myself some scrambled eggs with two generous toasts, accompanied by a delicious coffee courtesy of my new coffee maker, and spread out on the couch, devouring the food as though I hadn't eaten in days. My stomach purred gratefully. Then I went into the bathroom for a relaxing shower, and after dressing up in my favorite pants and sweatshirt, I rescued the green notebook. I opened it with an unexpected feeling of excitement, and looked at the first page with the same interest as the last time. Then I took a marker and wrote:

TO ALL INTERESTED PARTIES:  
GO FUCK YOURSELVES.

Then I tore up the paper, stuck it on the front door and, in an extraordinarily cheerful mood, went outside to face a new day.


	7. FIVE

I walked down the street, experiencing the frenzy of a little bird leaving its cage for the first time. It had snowed during the night and the air was so cold that crystalline ice edges had formed where the humidity met the snow. The icy breeze burning my skin made me feel even more awake, as though all my worries had escaped to a deserted island lost in the Pacific.

At least for the time being.

I felt good and impetuous. If that was the effect of writing a simple note, I wondered what I could accomplish by papering over Manhattan with messages to all the undesirable friendships I had forged over the past few years.

I walked past a newsstand and bought the New York Times, recalling what Grace had told me. I hadn't forgotten the first time Barney had introduced me to her, on her twenty-fourth birthday. I’d been determined to buy her something even though Barney had insisted over and over again that it wasn't necessary. Nevertheless, I showed up with a beautiful bouquet of flowers for Barbara and white gold earrings for Grace. She still wore them to this day; in the picture that would possibly put her in the orbit of the entire world too.

I opened the magazine that came with the newspaper, unable to control my curiosity any longer, and turned page after page in search of that familiar and beautiful face. I passed opinion articles, interviews with well-known and not so well known notorious people, and reports about the strange wild world, all the way to the back cover without seeing Grace anywhere. I went through the publication again, more calmly but, indeed, there was no trace of her. My fingers were freezing from the cold, so I rolled up the magazine and pulled out my cell phone; a robotic voice informed me that the number I was calling was out of service.

I decided to change my plans and go to the Nichols' restaurant. I found Barney climbing up a ladder and cursing while clumsily holding a yardstick against the wall behind the bar.

“Wouldn't it be easier if there was a person at the other end?”

Barney gave me a sour look. “The women are in the office. Stop judging and give me a hand.”

“What are you supposed to be doing?”

“They want to put up a backlit with pictures of the menus, so I try to find out how much space we have.”

I helped him take the measurements and then he offered me a coffee.

“Have you rested?” he asked with the same paroxysm as someone would address a stone.

“Quite a lot,” I replied, concentrating on the steaming cup before drinking it in one gulp. “I'm going to the office to say hello to Barbara and Grace.”

“Grace is not here.”

“No?”

“No, she said she wasn't feeling well and stayed home.”

“Who’s with Barbara, then?”

“Julieta," he said in a husky voice, sinking his black eyes into me.

I tried to feign indifference, but the mere mention of her name made me feel ticklish in the stomach.

“How was last night?” Barney asked without refinement.

“Fine.”

“It looks like it; you both seem to be in a very good mood today.”

“I’m reassured to hear that, honestly.”

Barney raised his eyebrows, but I sealed my lips like a clam.

“So?” he asked

“I’m sorry, but I only share these intimacies with my friends, and you and I aren’t going through a good run right now as it can be presumed from your lengthy oratory.”

“Act as saucy as you want but I have more than enough reason to be nervous, and you know it.”

I turned my back on him, pretending not to pay attention to what he was saying.

“Nothing happened,” I confessed without intending for him to hear me.

“What did you say?”

“I'm not going to repeat it.”

“I knew it.”

“What?”

“That Julieta is too good for you,” he said, boasting.

“Sod off, Barney Nichols.”

I left Barney there and crossed the hall to the office. The door was ajar and I could hear the two women talking. I knocked gently to warn them and then poked my head in.

“Elio! I wasn't expecting you here today,” Barbara said, opening her arms instinctively to hug me as she always did.

Julieta watched us with a cheerful smile. She had half of her hair up in a little ponytail, and was wearing simple jeans and a striped sweater.

“Can I steal her from you for a second?” I asked, pointing my head in Julieta’s direction.

Barbara showed no sign of surprise; she rubbed my arm with motherly affection.

“I'm going to see if that grumpy man needs anything.”

“How are you doing? Did you sleep well?” Julieta asked as soon as Barbara closed the door and we heard her walk away.

“Yeah. I tried to act all gutsy but the mezcal knocked me out.”

Julieta giggled. “I'm sure you've had much stronger things.”

“I won't say no… now, seriously, I wanted to thank you, and also apologize for the show last night. I feel so embarrassed.”

“Come on, Elio, it’s okay. I've been through worse, I assure you.”

I subscribed to her words as they came, with no pretensions of pushing the issue further.

“Do you have any plans? Do you want to go for a walk?”

“Of course, why not? Once I’m done here we can meet…" she looked at her watch. "At noon by Seward Park’s fountain?”

“Sounds perfect.”

After saying goodbye to Barney and Barbara, who were foolishly arguing about how big the backlit should be, I checked my own watch; I still had time before meeting Julieta again and was only a few minutes away from Madison Street where the Nichols lived. I rang the doorbell and waited impatiently until I could hear some slow, heavy footsteps. I pictured her peering through the peephole, wheezing humorlessly and hesitating to open. But she did and looked exhausted—it was obvious that she’d been crying. Her eyes were swollen, and dark patches circled each socket. She stepped aside to let me in.

“What happened, Grace?”

She closed the door and sat down on the couch wrapping herself in her woolen jacket.

“I'm an idiot, Elio.” She covered her face with her hands and groaned angrily.

I sat next to her while she explained that those who were supposed to arrange the interview had called her the day before because, apparently, a problem had arisen. At the restaurant where they had agreed to meet, the man who had been present at the photo shoot and a woman who didn’t introduce herself were waiting for her. Only the man spoke, ensuring that for reasons beyond his agency's control the article was not going to be published but, he added, this didn’t have to be an impediment to establishing a working relationship between them—they were willing to make her a much more profitable job offer.

Grace paused; her fingers kept wrinkling and smoothing the sleeve of her jacket.

“They want me to work as an escort.”

I looked at her firmly, perhaps hoping that she’d start laughing and reveal that everything was just a joke. She didn’t.

“I hope you told them to go fuck themselves.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

“Why shouldn't it be so easy?”

“He didn't say it openly but hinted that if I didn't accept I would get problems. They have pictures, Elio…”

“What kind of pictures?”

“Pictures. Pictures of me in my underwear and—shit.”

She got up and started pacing around. Her whole body was shaking.

“If it was a story about new talents, why the hell do they have pictures of you half naked?”

Grace stopped at the incriminating tone of my voice. She had started crying again.

“They said they were going to take the opportunity to make a portfolio. I don't know, at the time it didn't seem so silly to me; all models have one—”

“But you're not a model, damn it!”

That outburst was received like a bucket of cold water. I got up quickly and hugged her.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry…”

“I know I've been a fool,” she said.

“Hey, it's okay, it's okay, all right? We'll find a solution. Do you have that man's number?”

“The two times he called me he did it from a private number. The day of the photo-shoot he gave me a card, but it's fake, I've already checked it. The agency doesn't exist.”

I snorted. “Okay, give me the card anyway.”

“I've thrown it away. What do you want it for?”

“I have a—I know someone in the police department; maybe he can tell us what to do.”

Grace went into the kitchen and returned with a handful of small cardboard shreds. We sat down on the couch again and I tried to piece it back together with some tape.

“Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to stay?” I asked.

“Would you like to stay?”

“If your father finds me here without any good reason he’ll throw me out the window, that's for sure. But if you need company…”

Grace smiled unwillingly. “Don't worry. I'll take a shower and go to the restaurant. I need some distraction.”

“I'll call you as soon as I find out something.”

I left Grace a little calmer, but I understood her distress. These kinds of people didn’t choose their victims at random, they sought out those with financial problems and offered them amounts of money that in many cases were difficult to refuse. Deep down it seemed like easy work: attending ostentatious parties with people living in the lap of luxury, wearing beautiful dresses and jewelry worth thousands of dollars. But then there were the sexual favors, the extortions and the threats, which not only hovered over the persons involved, but extended to their families. So the game became a dangerous circle from which it was difficult to escape.

Sounded familiar.

I arrived at Seward Park early; it was snowing heavily at the time, although that didn’t seem to dampen the spirits of the people walking in the park—among the relaxed passers-by was him, Daniel Mahelona, navigating through the crowd like an evening tide. He didn’t even look surprised to see me when his inquisitive gaze crossed mine.

“Look, I don't care if you’re the police, the president or the Virgin Mary herself. This is stalking,” I said when he stopped in front of me.

Mahelona granted himself a moment to study me with cheekiness that was somewhat ingrained but also an acquired attitude as a defense mechanism against the kind of insolence and insolents (like me) that someone of his rank had to endure every day. He then moved just a little and pointed to one of the buildings across the street.

“I live there.”

I wasn't fast enough to sift my amazement.

“Really? Since when?”

“The last ten years.”

“Wow, I had no idea.”

“You have no idea about many things, Perlman.”

I inspected the building; a narrow five-story block nestled like a small book of fables between large encyclopedic volumes.

“I figured that someone in your position could afford something more… lavish.”

“You figured wrong. But if you're so interested, I like the neighborhood. Besides, Perlman, some of us settle for a modest life.”

“I don't know what the disdain is about, you've seen where I live… and where I sleep.”

“Yes, and I still don't understand why.”

“You mean you don't understand why I live there or why you ended up riding on my mattress? In any case, I'm a simple guy, I’m happy with very little. But it's funny that we haven't seen each other around before in all this time, don't you think? Which is interesting, you know, because I was just thinking about you.”

“Oh, you don’t say! Should I feel flattered? Maybe fate has something in store for us after all, though I find that hard to believe considering you haven't bothered to answer any of my calls.”

“Don't mind me; you know, Mr. Officer, that I haven't asked to be such a sought-after person, so I try not to pay too much attention to that device coming from the underworld itself.”

“Well, let me advise you not to become too detached from it, because I may have news for you soon.”

“Good or bad?”

“That's for you to decide.”

“If your intention was to intrigue me, congratulations, you’ve succeeded. Although at the moment my interest lies more with another matter that I’d like to discuss with you.”

Mahelona crossed his arms, oozing complacency—it was worth pointing out that the coat fit him like a glove. Over his shoulder I saw Julieta approaching us. She had sheathed herself in a long puffed coat and was wearing a funny colorful wool hat.

“You’ll say, Perlman; I’m the intrigued one, now.”

“I’d love to sing as a magpie but I'm afraid I don't have the time right now. Maybe I can call you when—”

“Ah, I see…” He interrupted. “Well, I don't know, I might be too busy to meet you. In fact, I'm quite busy. Very busy.”

“Come on, don't be spiteful, I haven't made a decision yet about that other thing we’ve unresolved between us.”

“Hi! Sorry I'm late,” Julieta said when she reached us.

Mahelona turned to look at her and raised his eyebrows with innate professional interest when he saw her put a confident hand on my arm.

“Don't worry, I was having a lively conversation. Julieta, this is my good friend Daniel Mahelona. He's a detective, but he doesn't look like one, does he?”

Julieta dedicated one of her lovely smiles at him while offering a hand that Mahelona shook with professional kindness.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Ditto.”

“Well, I don't want to keep you any longer.” Mahelona addressed me then, with an expression as opaque as a piece of wood. “We'll talk soon.”

And just like that, he crossed the street. Julieta and I stared after him; there was something about Mahelona, some kind of pleasant magnetism that simply made him stand out from the rest of the people.

“Is he really a detective? He's very attractive.”

“And very gay,” I replied with staunch inertia.

Julieta burst out laughing. “Trying to reduce competition?”

“It's for your own good, I wouldn't want you to waste your time on impossible causes.”

“I wasn't talking about me…” She said, winking at me.

“Well… in the game you have to take advantage of all the hands you have at your disposal because you never know. What do you feel like doing?”

“We had agreed to go for a walk, hadn't we?”

“Yes, but this weather…”

“Are you scared of the snow, Elio?”

Julieta grabbed my arm tighter with her gloved hand, and we started our walk from East Broadway to Grand Street, two of the avenues that best represented the passage of immigration on the Lower East Side. Not surprisingly, Chinese and Jews ran the vast majority of the businesses in the area. From Grand Street we headed directly to the East River promenade where the humid cold didn’t stop us from enjoying the view of Williamsburg Bridge and the neighborhood from which it took its name on the other side of the river. It wasn’t a remarkable or beautiful postcard, but we were comfortable in each other's company, talking nonstop, linking topics with expeditious ease.

We took the other side of the bridge on our way back, until I suggested a detour and stop at a restaurant I liked a lot. On Sundays it was usually crowded but we found a table for two next to one of the windows.

“So, why did you leave the university, Elio?” she asked after taking a mouthful of her salad with mushrooms. “Barney told me that your grades were incredible.”

“He's just exaggerating. I really liked what I was doing, but I guess I wasn't ready for something as stupid as heartbreak. You know, silly things that happen when you're young and think the world is your oyster. Then you grow up and realize that it's all a fallacy, and that we're just puppets in the service of capitalism.”

“Wow… and all that because someone broke your heart?”

“I was so in love… it was hard for me to accept that things were over, so I fell into a self-destructive spiral—and luckily there was Barney.”

“They are two angels, aren't they?”

“Yeah, they are like a second family to me. Anyway, what about you; any teenage love worth mentioning?”

“No, actually, I didn't have any serious relationship until I met Diego's father and… yeah, that didn't end very well either.”

“And here we are…”

We laughed in silence.

“Barney would like this conversation.”

“You should see the conversations he has with Diego… Barney and Barbara are so good with him; Diego loves them very much. God, I can’t wait to see him tomorrow.” She looked down the street, smiling in a way I'd never seen before. “I don't usually introduce him to the men I meet. Over the years I've tried to make sure that the fact that it's just him and me doesn't become a burden, I want Diego to know that we’re a family as normal as any other. He's fine with it, really, he doesn't ask questions, but he gets attached very quickly and I don't want him to get hurt. I hope one day you can meet him, especially since that’d mean you're not a dick like the rest.”

I smiled warmly.

“I make no promises…”

I don’t know how to explain what happened then; it was very strange, as though time had been suspended—an emptiness of light and energy until the absent heat presented itself like a tsunami projected from the depths of my being, razing and burning every inch of my skin.

“Elio… are you all right?”

“Yes…”

“Are you sure?”

I drank some water but my pulse was racing like a mad greyhound.

“I need to go to the restroom.”

I excused myself and went into the toilets, stumbling around like a drunken man trying to look sober. I had to hold on to one of the sinks to avoid falling over. Behind me I heard a flush and in the mirror I saw a man who barely noticed me. I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing. I opened the tap and soaked my face with cold water. And suddenly, with a thunderous and unexpected roar, a song started to play—one I knew very well.

“Fuck!” I exclaimed, startled.

The man at the other sink was shaken by my reaction, and looked at me with bewilderment. He moved his lips but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“What?!”

“Are you okay—why the fuck is you yelling at me?!”

“It's the music!”

He watched me like I had lost my mind.

“Don't you hear it? _Psycho Killer_!”

The man opened his eyes frightened and raised his hands in a gesture of keen submission, then left the toilet as fast as he could.

I had gone mad; it was official.

The music stopped as suddenly as it had started. I put my hands to my ears, relieved, but the vibration of my phone made me jump again. I pulled it out quickly in case it was Grace, but the message came from no other than Mahelona: _We have to meet. I’ll call you_.

I turned on the water again and wet my neck and breathed calmly and deeply through my nose, inhaling and exhaling the same amount of air. I took my time until all concentration was focused on the weird bubbling that I heard at my back. When I turned around, I saw with horror that one of the toilets was flooding with water of a disturbing brown color. What the hell had that poor man eaten?

I was about to leave to give notice when a loud bang made me stop in my tracks. I stood still like one of Praxiteles' sculptures—trapped in my own body; and then it was heard again so loud that the walls groaned in response. I noticed that the tiles were dripping wet, thin threads of water pouring out from between the joints. I placed a hand on them and a new, sharp noise resonated through the four walls with the same fury of thunder. The floor shook and the tiles bulged, unable to contain the increasing pressure until they erupted into millions of pieces, giving way to a current of water that penetrated the small bathroom like an uncontrolled flood. I tried to run but crashed into the door. So, with no time left, I simply shrank, covering my head with my arms, and waited for an impact that never came.

After a few seconds, or perhaps minutes, I opened my eyes and took a wary look around. The bathroom was just as I had found it when I walked in, and all I could hear was the rhythmic dripping of a broken faucet. I got up slowly, for a moment disoriented, unable to find an explanation for what had just happened. Was I dreaming again? No, I wasn’t dreaming, that’s the only thing I was completely sure of.

I grabbed the knob and opened the door with more energy than was needed. The whole restaurant had come to a standstill, their attention fixed right on me. Julieta was standing halfway between our table and the restroom. I approached her, ignoring the dozens of eyes that were watching my every move.

“What happened in there?” Julieta asked quietly.

I didn’t answer. I passed her by and went back to our table with Julieta on my heels. The rest of the guests, mute as vermin, followed us with their glances. I sat down and buried my face in the cocktail menu.

“Sir? Is everything all right?” one of the waiters asked with cautious interest.

“Perfectly fine.”

“Will you want anything else?”

“Yes, one of these Vodka cocktails—whichever. Don't be stingy with the alcohol.”

“I’ll have tea.”

Julieta smiled at the waiter placidly and didn't take her eyes off him until we were alone again and normality seemed to slowly return to the rest of the tables.

“The man sitting back there, who keeps looking our way, told his friends that someone in the bathroom was acting very weird. He literally said the guy was acting like a freak. Then we heard a loud blow against the door. What happened?”

I snorted. “I don't know… I guess it's just anxiety.”

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

“I thought so, but… I'm not sure anymore.”

The waiter returned with our drinks, which we drank in the most absolute of silences. Then, and despite Julieta's immeasurable protests, I paid the bill. When we left the restaurant it was already past three, it wouldn’t be long before nightfall but Julieta didn’t seem to worry too much, so I told her that my apartment was only one block away and that I could give her a ride home. She had no objection, so we walked quietly under the dim gray light that slinked between the buildings.

“I'd invite you up for a drink but my apartment isn't exactly the epitome of tidiness right now.”

“Barbara told me that some guys broke in.”

I looked at her sideways and cursed Barney and his big mouth.

“It was nothing; I wasn't home.”

We were getting close when we heard a furious rush and noticed people walking away briskly from whatever was happening. As we turned the corner, we saw a group of guys standing together in the middle of the street. Furthest away, one of them was holding back Marco, who was trying to get away while looking at the other five in shock. We approached cautiously until Julieta grabbed my arm to stop me. That's when I realized that Vimini was on the ground, cornered by them. She looked calm, with that smugness of hers, watching almost without blinking the guy who looked like the leader of the gang. He said something that we couldn’t hear and Vimini, after hesitating for a few seconds, raised her right arm and showed him her palm. The leader, who was sporting a ridiculous quiff and held a cigarette between his lips, grabbed Vimini’s wrist and put out the cigarette on her hand. Vimini didn't flinch and kept a defiant look that provoked the laughter of the other guys. On the other side, Marco was screaming desperately for his sister to be left alone. The rest of the passers-by were piling up on the sidewalk, with tons of curiosity but not that much intention of intervening.

Getting rid of Julieta's hand, I approached the group decisively. I pushed two of the boys out of the way and shoved the cigarette guy hard. He stumbled, unsuspecting, just barely avoiding falling to the ground.

“What the fuck?” he said in surprise.

“I'll make you swallow that cigarette if you dare to touch the girl again.”

“What's your fucking problem, dude?” A guy with a shaved head came up to me.

“Elio…”

Julieta approached now, visibly alarmed.

“Give 'em hell, Captain,” Vimini said, still on the ground.

“Captain?”

The whole group burst out laughing, except for the cigarette guy, who was watching me cagily. Then the idiot with the shaved head grabbed me by the shoulder, I turned fast and hit him in the chest to get him away from me. This caused two of the others to step forward in a threatening manner.

“Elio!”

“Please stop!” Marco shouted.

“We're six against one, asshole. You realize we could crush you?”

“What's stopping you?” I said, facing the bald guy. “You even have an audience!”

I pushed him again, but in a quick move that I barely had time to register he pulled out a knife. I backed away in surprise while a frightened murmur spread around us. Behind me I could hear Marco crying, but I had lost sight of Julieta.

“You’re the Gambler, right?”

The cigarette guy had stepped close without me noticing. I looked him up and down with an arrogance that had the unmistakable quality of indifference, as though the fact that he had recognized me gave me an ineffable hierarchical superiority.

“And who the hell are you?” I asked.

Still, my self-important tone didn’t intimidate him at all, but he placed a hand on the skinhead's arm, signaling him to put the knife away.

“Benny's really pissed off, dude. You better go see him.” He gestured toward the others and walked away as though nothing had happened.

I didn't take my eyes off them until I found Julieta's gaze within the crowd. Her tanned skin was as pale as the snow falling around us. She looked at me for a moment and then rushed over to where Vimini sat; Marco was already by her side. The crowd remained expectant, as though waiting for the start of a second act. I sent them packing with very bad language, and once the street was clear I bent down next to Vimini.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Captain.”

“The burn doesn't look too bad,” Julieta said, holding the girl's hand carefully.

“Come on, I'll take care of that at home,” Marco said.

“You must wash the wound to remove—”

“I know what I have to do.”

Julieta withdrew, silenced by Marco's sudden hostility. I imagined that he still felt terrified. As I helped him lift his sister off the ground, I noticed that Vimini's left hand was swollen.

“Did you hurt yourself?” I asked.

“No.”

“You sure? Don't start with your fibs, Vimini.”

“But I didn’t!” she protested.

“They pushed her and she fell on her face to the ground,” Marco said.

“I wasn’t pushed! I tripped. They were lucky; otherwise I would’ve beaten them up.”

“Damn it, Vimini! Those guys could’ve really hurt you and your brother. Can’t you see it? You're only nine—”

“Almost ten!”

“I don't care! You're just a puny, stubborn kid, not a fucking superhero. Get over yourself!”

Vimini wrinkled her little face, very upset; her eyes glittered with tears of rage. I felt miserable for talking to her like that but her imagination was reaching intolerable limits.

“You better get her to the hospital, she might have a broken wrist,” I said.

Marco shook his head.

“My parents aren’t at home.”

I sighed and looked at Julieta who had kept quiet since Marco's outburst.

“If you want I can take you home and—”

“Don't worry,” she replied calmly.

“All right, I'll go get my car.”

It took us fifteen endless minutes to get to the hospital; the tension inside the car could be cut with a dull blade knife. Vimini was deeply afflicted by all that had happened and clearly irritated by Julieta’s presence which disturbed Marco as well. And Julieta… well, it was impossible to know what was going through her head. Our second date seemed doomed to absolute failure again.

After explaining why we were bringing a nine-year-old with a broken wrist and a burn on the other hand to ER, we sat in the waiting area.

“Here.” Julieta handed me a plastic cup with some coffee. “I also brought one for Marco, but you'd better give it to him, I don't want him to throw it in my face. I’m a peaceful person, but my patience has limits.”

Her tone was friendly, but you could tell she was perplexed. Marco, on the other hand, walked from one side of the corridor to the other, stopping only occasionally to look out of the windows.

“I’m sorry for his behavior…”

“You don't have to justify him, Elio.”

“I know. But it bothers me to see him act that way.”

“And I'm sure you haven't given him any reason to… come on, his coffee is getting cold.”

I examined Julieta for a brief moment, considering how I should take that comment. Then I got up and approached Marco.

“Here, drink something hot.”

Marco looked at the cup with suspicion.

“I'm too nervous to take a caffeine hit right now.”

“Okay,” I shrugged and drank his coffee in one gulp. “Well, are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Don't you know? Because those guys came looking for you… they were leaving the building when we arrived. I didn't like the way they looked at me, so I pretended I didn't see them when they asked about you. But Vimini, who you know can't keep her mouth shut, started telling them that if they had a problem with you they should solve it with her. They started making fun of her, so I got in the way, but one of them grabbed me and Vimini got very defensive, insulting them—shit, my parents are going to go crazy when they find out.”

“Marco, it was a simple accident.”

“No, it hasn't. If you’d been home this wouldn't have happened.”

“Now it's my fault that your sister goes around believing she's Wonder Woman?”

“I didn't say that…” Marco lowered his head.

“Look, she's just a kid, in a couple of years she'll have other things to worry about and forget tights and capes.”

I took a look at Julieta who was waiting while she took her coffee in small sips.

“Why don't you come sit over there? Have some company.”

“I didn't know you had a girlfriend,” he said with a bellicose passivity.

“She's a _friend_ and a good person who hasn't done anything to you, Marco. You could be nicer to her.”

Marco looked at me with his green, ice-cold eyes before turning around to pace the corridor again. His sentence seemed final, so I didn’t insist and went back to sit next to Julieta.

“He didn't want the coffee, did he? I think yours has gone cold.”

It was true, but I drank it anyway.

“I appreciate you being here, but you didn't have to come.”

“Elio, I know how to move around this city. If I needed or wanted to leave, I would’ve done it by now.” She took a last sip and put her cup aside. “How long have you known them?”

“They moved in a year after I did. Vimini was only three and Marco thirteen. I've seen them grow up…”

“I'm curious, why does she call you Captain?”

“Vimini? She’s obsessed with superheroes; she thinks she has superpowers and a mission to fulfill. I guess she sees us as Batman and Robin or whatever. I don't know. She's been doing it for years now, and it drives me crazy.”

“You adore her, and she adores you too. It’s obvious.”

One of the red doors of the emergency area opened suddenly and a middle-aged doctor with gray hair came out into the hallway, concentrating on a clipboard he was carrying.

“Vimini Russo's family?”

“Me! I’m her brother,” Marco hurried.

The doctor let Marco in and the door closed behind them. Julieta and I waited in silence for about ten minutes until Marco appeared again, alone. I approached him immediately.

“Where is she? What did they say?

Marco didn't stop but sat down, leaving a seat between him and Julieta.

“They bandaged her hand and prescribed her some ointment,” he said, looking at the papers he had been given. “Now they're putting a splint on her other hand. She has a fractured wrist.” Then he raised his head and looked at me with stormy eyes. “They also asked me about you and your relationship with Vimini?”

“What? Why?”

“They wanted to know how you got those bruises and if you were ever violent with her.”

“I can't believe this… do they think I did this?”

Marco shrugged.

“I’ve stuck to the official version of events, of course.”

I sat in the empty space between Marco and Julieta. We barely spoke until almost an hour later Vimini appeared, accompanied by a nurse. She had a bandage on her right hand, and a blue sling supporting her left arm in a cast. She looked surprisingly excited and as soon as she saw us, she clumsily waved, showing off her war wounds proudly.

“Look at this, Captain!”

I smiled, somewhat relieved, and ruffled her carrot-colored hair with affection.

“Now you're going to have to ask people to sign it," Julieta said.

“It's true… Captain?”

“We have to go home now. Dad and Mom are going to kill us,” Marco intervened.

“Your brother’s right.”

We got in the car and decided that I would first drop them both off and then drive Julieta home. The plan didn't convince Marco:

“Isn't it easier for you to take her first?”

“No.”

Marco sat in the back seat next to his sister, sulking, and said nothing else. Vimini, however, used the entire ride to reel off her inaccurate version of the incident to Julieta. Marco practically pushed his sister out of the car when I finally parked in front of our block. I followed them; Vimini got away from her brother and waited for me in the middle of the sidewalk while Marco lurked at the top of the stairs. I crouched down in front of Vimini.

“I'm sorry I yelled at you, I didn't mean those things.”

Vimini put her bandaged hand on my shoulder, as a comrade would do to another, and adopting a laughably ceremonial expression she said, “Sincerity and trust are the most valuable of virtues, Captain.”

I had to laugh.

“Where did you learn that?”

“From a fortune cookie.”

Sometimes I didn't know whether to tape her mouth shut or give her a hug.

“You have to be more careful, Vimini.”

“I will. Will you sign this for me?”

“Vimini, come on!” Marco said.

“Tomorrow,” I said.

“Great!”

She ran up the stairs, tripping on the last one. Minutes later I was parking near Julieta's apartment.

“Do you want to come up?” She asked bluntly.

“I’d love to, yes.”

We decided that the most important thing was to fill our stomachs first. I didn't want Julieta to take the trouble cooking, so I suggested ordering something, which she flatly refused.

“It's one thing to go to a restaurant, but to have food delivered at home? No way.”

It didn't even occur to me to contradict her. So I ended up wearing a polka-dot apron and helped her prepare some hake meatballs, which she said were _mano de santo_ to make Diego eat fish without complaints.

After dinner, we sat on the couch and gave the mezcal a second round. I won't go into detail about what happened next, with my wandering luck I might even manage to jinx the memory. So I'll just tell you that we got back to business right where we’ve left it off the night before—this time, fortunately, without interruption.


	8. SIX

I hadn't checked the time when I turned on the light in the bathroom, but I knew it was very late. Julieta was sleeping peacefully in bed, however falling asleep had become an unreachable chimera for me. I inspected my reflection in the mirror; the bruises had considerably improved their grotesque appearance, although the same couldn’t be said of the dark circles under my eyes.

I returned to the bedroom to pick up my clothes and headed to the living room, tiptoeing around blindly and praying not to bump into anything that might break. I sat down on the couch simply because I didn't know what else to do. Through the heavy darkness I could see my parka hanging from the coat rack by the door. I could go home in silence and solitude, and thus save us the early morning embarrassment. But what kind of ungrateful bastard would that make me? Well, exactly who I was. But Julieta deserved better, even if I had to pretend a decency that I lacked at least until dawn. The time we’d spent together, from the walk to the sex a few hours ago, along with all the incidents in between that had only added to Julieta's enormous kindness was well worth an effort on my part.

“Elio?”

I opened my eyes.

Daylight penetrated through the curtains and spread throughout the living room. Julieta was crouching by the couch; her hair was wet and smelled of shampoo.

I got up quickly, lost for a moment.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“It's half past eight. I have to go.”

Did I fall asleep?

I had fallen asleep.

How was that possible? I couldn't sleep a wink next to the inebriating warmth of that woman’s body, and yet I could drool like a St. Bernard on her two-seater—stylish, yes, but not particularly comfortable.

Julieta disappeared down the corridor, so I tidied myself up as best I could and while waiting for her by the kitchen bar I looked at the photographs again. It was striking how blond Diego was compared to Julieta, although the beautiful curls that fell over his forehead were clearly her mother’s heritage.

“Okay, I'm ready,” she said, approaching as she tied a scarf around her neck.

“He looks a lot like you,” I said, pointing at the pictures.

Julieta smiled.

“I'm going to pick him up right now. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You don't have to lie, Elio…” She took her coat and handed me mine.

“I guess I'm not used to sleeping in company, and I didn't want to wake you up. Do you need a ride?”

“Thank you, but it's right next door.”

We went out on the street and stopped on the sidewalk.

“Thanks for dinner…” I said. “Maybe we could do it again some other day.”

“Maybe…”

“It’s possible that by the third time things will even be normal.”

“And boring, too.”

We laughed in silence.

“Take care, Elio.”

We moved awkwardly as though both of us were wondering if now was time to shake hands, opt for a peck on the lips or choose the middle ground with a respectful kiss on the cheek. We ended up wrapping ourselves in an anodyne embrace and then the two of us started our escape in opposite directions.

Amalia Russo was a tall, skinny woman with a pale, freckled complexion and hair as red as her two childrens’, even though hers had begun the descent into surrender in the battle against gray hairs. Not much of a talker, our exchange of words was usually reduced to saturated monosyllables that effortlessly fulfilled the expectations of any elevator conversation. She wasn’t shy, though—sometimes, I thought that she was just a woman who hadn’t yet found her place in this country, nor in this city, nor in this building. On other occasions, I suspected that she simply didn't like me very much. That's why I was shocked to find her in front of my door just as she was about to head to the stairs.

“Mrs. Russo?”

As soon as she heard my voice, Amalia turned around quickly and shortened the distance between us with firm and determined steps.

“Did you give this to my daughter?” she asked angrily, waving the Batman's trading card in the air.

Amelia threw the piece of cardboard in my face without waiting for an answer. I rushed to grab it before it fell to the floor.

“Stop putting these absurd ideas into Vimini's head, you hear me? In fact, from now on I’d appreciate it if you’d stay away from her and my son.”

“Mrs. Russo, you'll have to excuse me, but I don't understand what this is about. If it's because of what happened yesterday—”

“What happened yesterday? You mean the bandage and the cast Vimini wears today?” She shook her head in disgust. “And all because, according to her, she had no choice but to defend her _Captain_ and her brother. A nine-year-old!”

“I understand that—”

“No! You don't understand anything! Have you ever wondered why she never feels any kind of pain or why when she falls she doesn't cry?”

I wanted to present some arguments in my defense, if only to contribute to this heated discussion that for the moment only had one interlocutor who also had everything to gain.

“She has no extraordinary powers. Vimini’s ill!”

I was speechless as I watched that woman succumb to her despair, putting one hand to her chest in search of the air she was missing.

“Let's go into my apartment and talk calmly.”

“No!”

“Mrs. Russo, please…”

Understanding that in the corridor we exposed ourselves to the unwanted attention of the rest of the neighbors (I was certain that they already had their eyes glued to the peepholes), Amelia ended up accepting the invitation. I offered her a coffee, which she refused, so I let her settle on the couch while I leaned on the empty TV cabinet.

“Vimini suffers from a rare disease called Congenital Analgesia. It affects the peripheral nervous system and the cells that detect pain.”

I looked at her in astonishment, wiping all expression from my face.

“When did you find out?”

“When she was two. She’d been walking very weirdly for days, and then one morning she fell right in front of me and hit her head horribly hard. But she didn’t flinch—not a whimper nor a tear. Nothing. I took her to the doctor and, surprised, he asked for some tests. Her ankle was broken—her ankle had been broken for weeks and she didn't feel a thing… the bones didn't heal well and now she has a permanent limp. Haven't you noticed?” I opened my mouth, but it was obvious that I was useless in this conversation. “Her body doesn't respond to any stimulus.”

“Does she know?”

“Of course she does. But try explaining to a child that not feeling pain is something very serious and dangerous. She thinks she's invincible. I take her temperature twice a day, examine her from head to toe before she goes to bed… so imagine our shock when she showed up with her arm in a cast.”

“I'm very sorry, Mrs. Russo. I had no idea that—”

“Well, now you know.” She stood up resolutely and headed for the door. “I don't think you're a bad guy, Perlman, but from now on I expect you and your shenanigans to stay away from my family. As for the bill…”

“Don't worry about that.”

She left the apartment without saying anything else.

I sat there like a fool for a long time. I’d always thought that Vimini was a bit crazy, but it had never crossed my mind that the origin of her fantasies lay in a health problem. She was just a kid, an impertinent kid with a big mouth, yes, but always joyful and eager to do anything. I could see why she didn’t want to talk about this, but it bothered me that Marco had never mentioned it. He knew better than anyone how much time his sister spent with me—not that I believed I had the right to know about something so intimate and personal, but at least I would’ve been much more careful with her.

I prepared some breakfast, more out of inertia than appetite, after a long shower. But then I left the food on the coffee table and lay down on the couch with my eyes fixed on the damp spot in the corner, next to the window. I thought of Julieta and her son, a healthy boy who could play without fear, who could get on a bike for the first time and experience the trepidation and euphoria of the unknown. And when he fell and cried, because that had happened to all of us, his mother would run up to him to ask where he had hurt himself, and he’d point out the scratch covered with a thin layer of blood and dirt on his knee. His mother would blow on the wound and tell him it was nothing and the kid would feel relieved.

I dug into the pockets of my parka in search of a cigarette and went out onto the fire escape. For the first time in several days the blue sky was visible through the clouds, so I sat down on the stairs, drawing the smoke of that sly vice deep into my lungs as I watched the sunlight reflect on the windows of the building across the street.

My cellphone began its daily racket when I had already consumed more than half of the cigarette. It was Mahelona.

“Mr. Officer.”

“Perlman, we need to talk.”

“Yes, that’s what you said in your short message; I was hoping you’d be a little more specific.”

“Let's meet for lunch.”

“Another date?”

“Never get tired?”

“I once read that perseverance is no more than enjoying the distance between birth and the achievement of one's dreams—I think it's bullshit, honestly, but I'm not in a position to close the door on anything or anyone.”

“Put on sequins if you wish, then. Meet me at midday next to the Clement Clarke Moore Park bike rent. Do you know where it is?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Good. Don't be late.”

“Don't be so impatient.”

Despite the fact that the sun had shown itself for much of the morning, the temperature was still freezing, preventing the snow that had accumulated during the previous day from melting. I was looking at my watch for the sixth time when I finally saw Mahelona’s tall figure approaching.

“So I have to be on time but you can be almost an hour late. Let's talk about abuse of power," I complained.

“Although you may find it hard to believe, in this city there are people who work.”

“Couldn’t you find a place further away than this?”

“We're irascible today, huh? What's the problem, Perlman, haven't you slept well?”

“Sleeping well is a yen that I find quite elusive lately.”

“You're not the only one—anyway, the situation is rather simple: the further away from my district we meet, the less likely we are to be seen together.”

“Are you ashamed of me, Mr. Officer?”

“Oh, I wish that was the main focus of my concerns. Besides,” he added, pointing to the restaurant on the corner, “they have a nice menu there, and if I'm going to pay, at least I want to eat properly.”

We settled at the back of the restaurant, in a small corner away from other guests. After ordering and before I even gave Mahelona time to explain himself I took out the reconstructed business card from Grace and placed it on the table. He looked at it with frugality.

“I need a favor,” I said.

The chronic tedium suddenly disappeared from Mahelona’s face as he leaned back in his seat, smiling brashly.

“A person I care about a lot has a problem. She met a man who gave her this card after he offered her to be part of an important media campaign. But it all turned out to be a scam and now she’s being blackmailed into—”

“Becoming a luxury whore,” Mahelona interrupted with a monotonous voice.

I had to make an avid effort not to jump over the table and punch him in the mouth. I controlled myself simply for the sake of our peculiar professional and personal relationship.

Instead I put my fingers on the card and pushed it towards him.

“Have you heard of this agency?”

“I hear a lot of things throughout the day, Perlman.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. And about this particular agency?”

Mahelona took the piece of cardboard and examined it, then placed it back on the table.

“I'm not sure…” he answered with a small sigh.

It was at that moment that I realized how exhausted he was. Black circles surrounding his dark eyes, red from an evident and substantial lack of sleep, obscured his usually impeccable face. His hair was also messy and his beard looked bushy and unkempt. I would’ve liked to feel bad for him because despite our unsystematic disagreements I knew Mahelona was a good man, but I had no time for any of this.

“Make the effort, Mahelona.”

“Jesus Christ, Perlman. You think I don't have other concerns right now? You'd be surprised how many women do this kind of job of their own free will, and how much illegal money they move around.”

I put the card away when I noticed the waiter coming with our food; we waited meekly until he left again.

“I don’t believe these girls are doing this for fun, at least not the vast majority. It’s clear that this isn’t one of those agencies that advertise in the newspaper, Mahelona. You're a cop, aren't you supposed to be fighting these kinds of ploys?”

“That's right,” he said firmly but without raising his voice. “That's why I'm trying to get my hands on the biggest motherfucker living in this city.”

“Do you think this could be related to the Irishman?”

“Who knows…”

I took a spoonful of soup while Mahelona stared at me until something seemed to soften in his expression. Then he put his arm on the table, showing me the palm of his hand.

“Give me that card. I'll make some calls.”

I took out the card again and handed it to him.

“Thank you, thank you… I really appreciate it.”

He didn't say anything. He put the card in his pocket and began to eat.

“Who is she?” he asked after a while.

“What?”

“The girl. Who is she?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“You want me to investigate; you said it yourself, I'm a cop, I ask questions.”

I hesitated for a moment, I didn’t want to rat out Grace, but Mahelona was right.

“It's Grace Nichols. Daughter of—”

“Barney and Barbara Nichols. Yes, I suspected it’d be her.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re close enough to that family to bend over in front of me.”

“I’d make a joke about that but I’m not in the mood.”

“I'm glad you're taking something serious for once. Still, I'm surprised they chose her. It's true that she's a very beautiful woman and would look great next to those tycoons, but she doesn't fit the profile.”

“You talk like she's a fuckin' accessory.”

“That's what they're hired for.”

I pushed my plate aside; my appetite was gone. Mahelona, however, was chewing as though he hadn't had a decent meal in days. After finishing the bacon and cheese salad he’d ordered and taking a generous sip of his beer, he wiped his mouth with some of that modishness that resisted sublimation and looked at me carefully.

“Listen, I understand you're worried, Perlman, but right now there's not much else I can do for you or her.”

“When you say she doesn't fit the profile, what do you mean?”

“She’s a black woman; for the classist bourgeoisie that’s exotic, but she’s an American citizen and that’s not usual. They tend to choose foreign girls, without incomes, many of them are even lured here from other countries. They separate them from their families with whom they end up having no contact.”

“Shit… what are their chances of running away?”

“These mafias don't mess around, Perlman, they usually threaten the girls with harming their families, but if any of them get too annoying, they get rid of them, and that’s all about it—which helps to intimidate the others.”

I put my face into my hands.

“It doesn't have to be Grace Nichols' case, okay? Like I said, she doesn't fit the profile. Maybe this is just a company hunting for girls who don't mind having sex with powerful people in exchange for a very generous tip.”

“If that’s the case, what can she do?”

“Reject the offer, simply.”

“But they’ve already blackmailed her; they have pictures…”

“What kind of pictures?”

“Pictures of her in her underwear.”

Mahelona snorted, exhausted.

“The worst thing that could happen is that they’d use them as bait on some web sites. It's disgusting, I know, but a complaint would be enough to take them down. Seriously, Perlman, you're going to have to trust me when I tell you that that's the least of her problems.”

The waiter approached again.

“Any problem with the soup, sir?” he asked.

“No. It's good, but I’m finished. Thank you.”

The boy walked away and returned shortly after with the second courses. We ate in silence for a few long minutes, each absorbed in our own thoughts. Perhaps Mahelona was right and it was best for Grace to simply refuse. Maybe they were just using the threats as decoy and if it didn't work they’d just look for another girl who wouldn't give them trouble.

“I've never seen you like this,” Mahelona said, then.

“Like what?”

“Distressed… for real.”

“You speak as if you know me.”

“I know you enough.”

“Did I tell you that after our first meetings I read some books about criminal profiling? Not that crime fiction is my favorite genre, but I still find it quite fascinating, I mean, analyzing people's psychology. Do you do those things, Mr. Officer? Do you study criminals so thoroughly that you get to know them even more than you know yourself?”

“It's part of the job.”

“Have you done it with me?”

Mahelona watched me with an axiomatic curiosity until the shadow of a smile shaped the corner of his lips.

“Criminal profiling is only used in very specific situations—no offense, but your criminal record is too unimpressive to waste such precious time on it.”

“And yet there you are, bringing it up whenever the opportunity arises.”

“You have to use all the aces you have up your sleeve; just to use a simile appealing to your hobbies. But if you're curious, I can draw you a profile right now. I’m not sure if you're aware of it, Perlman, but you're like an open book.”

“Go ahead, I'm all ears.”

Mahelona leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, without taking his burning eyes off mine. The food was completely forgotten.

“All right… what I see is just a rich boy, desperate to show the world that he can sculpt a life away from the austere influences that come with carrying a name like yours. You’ve reached a point where you actually think you understand life outside of opulence, but you forget that the privilege you try so hard to avoid is a double-edged sword, and you already make use of it when you deny its existence. However, no matter how hard you try, it’s inherent to you—which means that you can always turn to it as soon as you get tired of pretending that your misfortunes are comparable to what those who are really born into nothingness have to suffer should you decide to go back to the 7.000 square feet of preeminence that await you on the beachfront in the Hamptons.”

I listened to him carefully; each one of those words pricking my skin like a thin, painful, invisible splinter. Mahelona grabbed his beer and leaned against the back of his seat.

“It's 5.800,” I said.

“What?”

“The square feet of the Hamptons house,” I replied, stabbing my fork into the grilled chicken that had already gone cold.

We kept quiet long enough for the silence to become dense and suffocating.

“Have I offended you, Perlman?”

“Not at all. Truths hurt, but only have the capacity to offend the ignorant. Anyway, you’re wrong about one fundamental thing.”

“Which one?”

Vexed, I put the cutlery back on the table.

“You made me come here because you had news, didn't you? Well, let's get to the point because it’s pretty obvious that these intimate conversations between us only really work if there’s alcohol or nudity involved.”

Mahelona nodded slowly, as though he was questioning if, indeed, it was better to change the subject or if it was worth using the tactical advantage to take one more thrust. Finally, he began dissecting his steak.

“I have news about that painting that interests you so much,” he said.

I stretched my neck like an antelope after the upcoming hiss of a predator.

“What kind of news?”

“The reason why Luster wants to get rid of it,” he said, distracted by his food. “Isn't it strange that a man who pays $60.000 for a painting ends up throwing it on a poker table where he probably won't get back a third of what it cost him?”

“I still don't understand why he doesn't sell it to the Sheik. Everyone says Luster’s a fascist, but I don't think that's the reason—especially when it comes to money.”

“Think: what can lead a person to get rid of an object that’s supposed to be so valuable?”

I thought for a minute.

“Discovering that it’s fake?”

“Bravo, Perlman!”

I frowned without understanding.

“Is it fake?”

“Well, not exactly. The painting is actually by this mysterious artist but it’s not the original piece.”

“But then it still has value.”

“Luster paid for an original work, something unique. That painting has no more value than any other. Maybe even less. After all, it’s a copy.”

Those weren’t the news I’d expected for sure; they were still interesting, though. Especially since I had full confidence that Benny knew nothing about this.

“How did Luster find out?”

“The fuck I know. The important thing is the information, not where it comes from.”

“I don't think you feel the same way about your work.”

“Definitely. But you're not a detective, are you?”

“Why would an artist paint a copy of their own painting?”

“Perlman…” Mahelona pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'm telling you this because you were interested in that painting, but let's make things clear: I don't give a damn about it.”

I zoned out as I analyzed the information and worked out in what position of prevalence the knowledge placed me in this whole game. Then I observed Mahelona who had finished his meal, his plate shining as though a dog had licked it clean. My grilled chicken, however, was still almost intact.

The waiter approached again and took Mahelona's plate, then stopped when he saw mine.

“Would you prefer me to come back later?”

“Oh, no, no. You can take it.”

“You’ve hardly eaten, sir. We can bring you something else if you don't like it…”

“I'm fine, don't worry.”

“Will you want dessert?”

“Yes, bring the menu," Mahelona said.

The waiter looked at me and I shrugged.

“He's paying.”

We waited patiently until the boy had cleared the table and left.

“You eat like you’re starving, Mr. Officer, and I'm sorry to be the one who says this, but you don't look good at all—and that, in my opinion, should be considered a crime.”

Mahelona watched me with a seditious intensity.

“Let's say I've had a pretty busy few days, which brings us to that other thing you and I have to deal with. Perlman, I need an answer and I need it now.”

I looked away from those intense and threatening eyes. I tried to adjust my weight in the soft seat, but it didn't seem comfortable anymore.

“Does it have to be now?”

“We have four days to get you on that list. So, yes, it has to be now.”

I thought of Barney and Barbara. Now they could run the restaurant with Julieta's help and without worrying too much about Benny—as long as he kept his word as we’d agreed, of course. I was wondering what kind of relationship Benny had with the Irishman and to what extent he was involved in his business. Would he know anything about the mess Grace had gotten herself into? Would that be part of the Irishman's dealings? If they caught this man, many of his hidden fiddles would come to light, and this would help many people who, like Barney, had accumulated unfairly high debts, which they couldn’t pay off.

I let out a deep groan.

“I don't know, Mahelona…”

The waiter approached with the dessert menu, interrupting the conversation once again and giving me a few seconds to breathe. As soon as he walked away, I glanced at the list of cakes, puddings and ice creams, intrigued even though I had no intention of ordering anything.

“You still don't realize how important this operation is. I'm more alone than you might think. Imagine how fucked I am when I trust a charlatan like you more than my own partners. I'd stick my neck out for those on my team, don't get me wrong, but I know there are people within the department who pass on information to the Irishman. Perlman, I _need_ you in on this.”

The helplessness that harassed Mahelona was more than evident. I meditated on it, don't you dare to think I didn't—I thought about all the different approaches that emerged as I progressed through my own deliberations and which ended up not being very conclusive. There was something inside me that told me that if I said yes, there would be no going back, but I was in doubt as to whether that was a good or a bad thing.

I looked out of the window; the truce was over and the sun had disappeared again behind the compact clouds that carried with them a rough wind rattling leaves and branches. Then I looked at Mahelona again who was waiting without hiding his apprehension.

“I'm not going to do it,” I finally said.

Mahelona listened to my resolution with solicitude, and then leaned back in his seat without taking his eyes off mine. He tensed while his expression became darker and darker. He was quiet for a while, hardly blinking or moving. He looked like a bronze figure, carefully chiseled, but with its blank stare.

“Can I take note?” The waiter reappeared without either of us noticing.

“Bring the bill,” Mahelona answered in a low voice.

Why did I feel like a traitor? It was his job, not mine. And in the hypothetical case that I collaborated with him, nothing could assure us that he’d be able to imprison the Irishman. Was it worth taking the risk, then? There was only one answer for me. No.

“I'm sorry,” I said almost accidentally.

“Fuck this shit, Perlman.”

“Grumble all you want, Mahelona, but this isn’t my problem.”

“Ah, no? What about Nichols' debt?”

“That's already settled.”

“Yes, because you've paid for it after tricking an horde of idiots over the last few months.”

“Tricking is part of the game’s strategy, it's not my fault they ended up being a bunch of incompetents.”

Mahelona became very quiet all of a sudden.

“Are you going to tell Benny Davis about the painting?” he asked with masked serenity.

I backed off, stunned, although I wasn't even sure why I was surprised that he knew.

“Fucking hell…”

The waiter came over again and while Mahelona diverted his attention to settle the bill, I hastily grabbed my stuff and went out. Before I even put on my parka I had already lit a cigarette.

“I thought you were quitting,” Mahelona said behind me.

“Go fuck yourself, will you? If instead of wasting your _precious time_ sticking your nose into my life you’d committed yourself to learning more about poker, maybe you wouldn't have to be here begging for me to do it now.”

“My knowledge of poker is irrelevant; however, it's not so much that you move around in most places run by the Irishman. Why don't you ask the hooker you meet from time to time? I'm sure she'll tell you some very interesting things. Although, I think you've already seen for yourself the conditions in which she works and lives.”

I sat on the wrought iron fence that ran a long line, separating the sidewalk from the entrance to the adjacent buildings.

“She offers a service.”

“An illegal and exploitive service.”

“Then do something, that's your fucking job!”

“Fucking hell, Perlman, I'm trying!”

Mahelona sat next to me and rubbed his face exasperatedly before taking the cigarette from my fingers and putting it into his mouth. After two desperate puffs he handed it back to me, followed by a thick, troubled pause.

“I hope this conflict doesn't interfere with that other matter we've talked about today…” I ventured, tentatively.

Mahelona turned slightly and looked at me with an expression impossible to describe, a union of agony and rage.

“Don't you think this is unfair?” I argued. “You've put me in an extremely complicated situation, and yet you're the one who's angry while I'm the one feeling bad about it.”

“You feel bad? I'm glad.” He rubbed his temples like he was in pain. “And I'm not angry…”

“Of course you are.”

Mahelona stood up, visibly stressed.

“I'm disappointed and sick of all this," he said, hesitating then as though to add something else, but he stared at the cars that drove by, oblivious to the silent storm that was gathering around us. “Look, don't think I don't understand your point, Perlman, but I told you it wasn't about you or me. This is much bigger and more complicated than two idiots quarrelling in the middle of the street.”

“Well, let's not.”

He shook his head as though that wasn’t an option; he took his gloves out of his coat pocket and turned to look at me with severe stoicism.

“Is it worth asking again?” he said.

“I guess not…”

Mahelona nodded, exhaling heavily and giving up too quickly.

“You know there’ll be consequences.”

I didn’t respond.

“Okay then, I’m afraid that our cordial relationship has to end here. I hope the skin around your wrists isn’t too sensitive because the next time we meet I’ll come with a warrant in one hand and handcuffs in the other.”

And with those words that sounded more bitter than threatening, he walked away, disappearing at the first intersection.


	9. SEVEN

I closed the door of my apartment with so much verve that I could’ve sworn the frame moved a few inches.

I was pissed off, very pissed off.

Pissed off at myself for not showing more determination—although, how could I if I wasn’t even sure of what I was doing? I was also pissed off at the world for the absurdity of it all, for the lack of civility and for the dog shit I had stepped in on the way to the subway. “And how do I clean this mess now?” The dog's owner had reproached me. The excrement smell had escorted me all the way, which had assured me of a perimeter bubble that I’d been deeply grateful for.

I was pissed off, very pissed off, yes, especially at Mahelona for being able to make me feel like a deceitful coward.

I sat on the toilet lid covered to my elbows with rubber gloves while balancing a plastic bucket full of water on my knees. I put the boot in and rubbed vigorously with a brush until the water became so muddy, dense and foul smelling that it made me retch.

I was in the process of flushing the disgusting brew down the toilet when I heard a knock on the living room window. There, with her nose pressed against the glass, waving her bandaged hand, was Vimini.

I swore to myself.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked her as I opened the window.

Vimini took out a marker from her jacket pocket and lifted her cast.

“Have you learned nothing?” I said.

“This time I left a book on the sill so that the window doesn't close,” she defended herself.

“That wasn’t the damn lesson…”

I gave up at the prospect of an unproductive discussion and stepped aside to let her in and keep her away from the chill that, judging by her attire, didn’t seem to bother her that much.

“Do you have any idea about the telling-off your mother gave me this morning?”

“I know… she's very upset.” Vimini looked down with an attempt at a contrition gesture, but the effect didn't last long and she jumped onto the couch. “Will you sign this?”

I threw the gloves into the bathroom and settled down next to her, placed her tiny arm over my knees and took a look at the cast.

“Has your brother not written yet?”

“I want the first one to be you, Captain.”

I unscrewed the marker and began to write. Vimini was leaning forward, impatient to find out what was being scribbled.

“Okay, done,” I returned the marker and went back to the bathroom.

On the other side of the wall I could hear Vimini trying to decipher the dedication out loud at a turtle's speed: _su-per-he-roes-suck_.

She let out a little scream.

“Captain!”

I left the boot near the radiator, then put the gloves back on and placed the brush under the tap.

“Captain!” she repeated, showing up with her arm outstretched. “I don't like this.”

“I don't like you either.”

“Why do you always tell me all those ugly things?”

“Because I’m not a good person, Vimini. Open your eyes. People are bad and treacherous and the sooner you realize that, the better.” I took off my gloves and threw them into the plastic bucket. “Come on, do you want a snack? A sandwich?”

Vimini smiled. It was so easy to make her happy. I helped her sit down on one of the stools while I prepared something to eat and so fed that shark-mouthed hole that gnawed at my stomach with urgency.

“Where is she?” Vimini asked with her bird voice.

“Who?”

“The woman from yesterday. Julieta.”

“Busy with her own stuff, I guess. Why?”

“She's nice… and very pretty.”

“Yes, she is.”

I placed a plate in front of her. Vimini took one half of the sandwich and put it almost whole in her mouth.

“You’re an animal.”

“ _Izh zhe yoh gerlfhend_?”

I gave her a glass of water and then sat down with my snack and a bottle of beer opposite her.

“Chew before you speak, will you?”

“Is she your girlfriend?” she repeated after swallowing the ball of food.

“She’s a friend.”

“Better this way.”

Vimini finished the first half of the sandwich in record time, and took the second portion, nibbling it more carefully.

“Why?”

“Because you can't be with anyone. It wouldn't work.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Superheroes can't date.” She shrugged. “I don't make the rules.”

“That's bullshit.”

“No, it’s not.”

I ate a bit of my sandwich.

“Spiderman," I said suddenly. "Spiderman has Mary Jane.”

“She dies.”

“Wait, what?”

“Didn't you know?”

“No!”

“Well… there are a lot of alternative universes, _okaaay_? But if anything, they prove that love’s a silly distraction. Heroes and heroines have a mission, even marriage between them doesn't work.”

“What's the point of fighting for the welfare of the rest of the world when you can't do anything for your own?”

“They love what they do.”

“Don't tell me…” I drank from my beer. “I'm right, then, being a superhero sucks.”

I picked up my plate and took it to the sink.

“That's not true!”

“I hope that at least they have a proper union as a representation of interests.”

Vimini puckered her lips in a pout.

“Don't you prefer to imagine that we are a pop duo or something like that? We'd be successful, we'd travel the world, we'd make a lot of money and people who idolize us would always surround us. We could be like Annie Lennox and David Stewart.”

“Who?”

“Doesn't matter… finish that and go home before your mother shows up here again. I've had enough disputes for one day.”

Vimini ate what was left of her sandwich in silence.

“Many heroes ignore what they are until something tragic happens to them…” she said, with more sadness than I was willing to endure at that moment.

The sound of the doorbell broke the strange impasse.

“I’ll get it!”

“No, wait!”

Vimini jumped off the stool and ran to the door before I could do anything to stop her.

“Hello,” I heard her say with unexpected shyness.

I grabbed her by the shoulders with the intention of giving her a good scolding, but my mother's presence left me so stunned that the words didn’t come out.

“ _Maman_?”

Seeing Annella Moreau standing there, in the middle of that ordinary hallway and walking on that tatty carpet was like watching a swan swimming in the mud. She was wearing a simple but elegant wine-colored coat that covered her from her knees up. Under it she wore straight black pants that barely showed the tips of her shoes.

“Hello,” she said, looking at Vimini. “Who’s this beautiful little woman?”

“My name is Vimini Russo and I live upstairs.”

“Vimini, you can't just tell people who you are and where you live, just like that,” I reprimanded her.

“But it's your mother, right? I’m a friend and a colleague of your son, Mrs. Perlman.”

Vimini held out her bandaged hand just as any adult would. My mother, who didn’t wince when she heard her married surname, looked at Vimini with amusement, then bent down to be at her level and delicately shook the girl's hand.

“Nice to meet you, Vimini. What happened to you?” she asked, pointing to both the bandage and the cast.

“Some bad guys came to bother us, but I stood up to them. Then the Captain helped me.”

The Ice Woman, who seemed to have melted in the presence of the red-haired chatterbox, gave me a passing glance before turning her attention back to the girl who was picking up a piece of cardboard from the floor.

“Vimini, you must go home now,” I warned her.

She handed me the cardboard and rushed up the stairs after saying goodbye to my mother. I looked at the leaflet; it was a flyer for Benny Davis' new club, Kara. I assumed that someone had slipped it under the door very conveniently, although I hadn't noticed it when I entered. I left it on the counter while waiting for Annella Moreau to walk into my apartment for the second time in seven years.

“What does that paper you have stuck to your door mean?” she asked, returning to that frugal tone so characteristic of her and which she used especially when talking to me.

“It's nothing…” Then I cleared my throat trying to sound as diplomatic as possible: “I wasn't expecting you.”

“I know. I tried to call you but you didn't answer your phone," she said as she looked around inspecting the living room. “I have two invitations for the opening of a contemporary art exhibition; Dexter stood me up and since I'm here I thought maybe you'd like to come with me.”

Dexter was one of those fussy, pedantic friends she sometimes interacted with for lack of anything better to do with her free time. I had always wondered how it was possible for her not to faint from boredom in such company—you could say many things about my mother, but she’d never reached that level of morbid snobbery.

“Are you asking me for real?”

“Elio, you always complain that I'm too cold to you. Now I’ve come here and I propose that we do something together. At least you could be a little more receptive.”

“I'm sorry, I guess it's the lack of habit,” I said sarcastically.

“Do you have other plans?” she countered smugly.

I was too tired to get into that game.

“I’ll change.”

She tried a half-smile and I locked myself in my bedroom and searched in my closet to try to look presentable enough to be by her side.

We hadn’t been in that gallery for more than twenty minutes, and I would’ve happily given myself up to wiping out the alcohol reserves within my reach if it weren’t for the fact that ending up collapsed on the floor, rolling in my own vomit, didn’t have the sophisticated aura that the occasion deserved.

The exhibition consisted of a mixture of various types of artistic experiments that caught the most artificial attention of the New York elite. I’d long since lost sight of my mother, so I’d decided to soak up some of that vanity on my own. I stopped in front of one of the so-called sculptures—no more than a jumble of bars tangled together without any apparent criteria. I studied it closely, looking carefully for something, a turning point that would explain why this should be considered more than just a pile of junk.

“Do you like it?”

I turned around to find a woman in her fifties, holding a glass of champagne with calculated refinement. She was almost as tall as I, and proudly wore her whitish hair in a neat pixie style cut.

“Well, are you related to… Thomas Thompson?” I asked, taking a look at the artist’s name. “Is this even a real name?”

The woman laughed and stood next to me.

“No and yes.”

“Perfect. Is one allowed to be frank or is protocol strict with decorum?”

“Don't bother, I can see it on your face. You aren’t a friend of transgressive art, are you?”

I shrugged.

“Corporatism has perverted transgression into a futile tool lacking a message.”

“Oh, wow, that’s interesting… although I don't agree. I consider that what’s important is what the works say to us beyond what the author intends to convey with them.”

“Isn't that a way to corrupt their creativity?”

“Well, that's what free thinking is about.”

“I guess… and what does this one tell you?” I said, pointing at the sculpture.

“It speaks of oppression. I see someone who feels trapped and unable to find an escape.”

She spoke calmly and without taking her prying eyes off mine. Her words managed to make me nervous.

“Now why don’t you try yourself and then I'll tell you the name of the piece so you can see how wrong we both are," she said.

I watched the sculpture for a few seconds but I was already exhausted of that conversation.

“I'm sorry, but I'm too cynical to see anything more than a bunch of crooked iron bars.”

“I think you're actually feeling insecure—believe me, I've been around long enough to know that our perceptions of things say more about us than those who create them. But of course I don't want to overstep.” She turned fully and held out a hand. “Vanessa Doyle, owner of the gallery.”

I laughed with shame.

“I had a slight intuition that I was talking too much.”

“I like honest people, if that reassures you. And I agree that there’s a lot of pretentiousness in the art world. But I’m also of the opinion that when someone says they don't like a piece of work it’s simply because they don't understand it. By the way, it's called 'Waterfall' so you can imagine. And now, come with me, I bet you'll feel much more comfortable at the bar.”

I followed her through the crowd, watching her gazelle walk—the elegant and firm steps of a woman conscious of her power of attraction. The bar was a small room with dim lighting in purple tones, and the background music was soft and harmonious. Besides the two of us there were only six other people sitting in comfortable chairs, divided into two different groups. We chose a corner at the bar.

“A Martini, Johnny,” she asked the young bartender confidently, then looked at me.

“I’ll have a beer.”

“How rustic,” she said with an emphatic smile.

“I'm simple.”

“Make it two Martinis, John.”

“You like to be in control.”

“It's an occupational hazard, but I also have the feeling that you’re in need of something stronger.”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Is it necessary?”

She crossed her legs, letting the flowing fabric of her long dress hug her body perfectly.

“I don't want to sound rude but I'm not sure I'm interested.”

“You have doubts and I’m married. We killed two birds with one stone,” she said, showing me the ring on her left hand. “Anyway, you still haven't told me your name.”

“You haven't asked.”

“ _Touché_.”

At that moment another group of individuals entered the bar, among them, and to my surprise, was Benjamin Luster.

“Holy fuck…”

I’ve read articles about Benjamin Luster and the way he had managed to revive his father’s empire, founder of one of the most profitable commercial chains in the country. I’d seen him countless times on television, but never in person. He was a middle-aged man, not especially tall, or at least not as tall as he appeared in the images I’d seen of him, but he moved around with the kind of cheekiness of someone who feels good being the center of attention. He wore a scrupulously ironed dark blue suit and had his gray hair combed back to highlight a hooked nose.

“Do you know him?” Vanessa asked.

“Luster? No, not in person.”

“I’d introduce him to you, but I’ve been told privately that he’s very angry with me. The truth is that I’m surprised he showed up for the opening.”

“What’s his problem?”

“No one has been clear about it, but apparently he’s not satisfied with one of his latest acquisitions and blames me for it… as if I put a gun to his head while he was bidding,” she said with disdain.

I pricked up my ears at that piece of information.

“Do you organize auctions?”

“That's right.”

“I heard that a couple of years ago, Luster paid an exorbitant amount for a painting that—”

“Oh, yes. I remember it perfectly. I ran that auction. There was a sheik that was also very interested in that painting, but he never showed up. Luster bid like a madman.”

“Do you think the painting was worth the money?”

“A work of art has the value that its buyer assigns it.”

I shook my head.

“A stone will remain a stone even if millions are paid for it.”

“Not if that stone is unique in the world and there is someone else willing to pay anything to have it. Human greed works like this.”

“Are you saying that Luster only bid for the painting because the sheik was interested?”

“I didn't say that, dear,” she replied, taking a small sip of her Martini.

At that moment, my mother walked through the door and went directly to where Mrs. Doyle and I were sitting. She didn't seem particularly thrilled.

“Of course, of all the corners of this damned exhibition I had to find you here.”

Mrs. Doyle turned around at the disruption. My mother didn't even bother to look at her.

“Annella…”

“Vanessa. I see that you’ve already met my son,” she said with spurious cordiality.

“We haven't really introduced ourselves formally. But now that I know he’s your son my interest has increased.”

If I didn't know my mother as I knew her I’d swear that she would’ve been willing to grab that woman by the neck and throw her far away from the stool she sat on. Instead, she simply smoothed the sleeves of the white blouse she was wearing with great dignity.

“I’d congratulate you on the exhibition, Vanessa, but I found it incredibly insubstantial.”

Mrs. Doyle gave her an equally insolent smile.

“I'm very sorry that it wasn’t up to your expectations. Many of us here are aware of how exquisite your taste is. Perhaps one day I’ll call you to pass on some of your contacts; I know there are many…”

I felt completely insignificant and lost in the midst of that dialectical battle of which I couldn’t even consider myself a spectator. I wanted to intervene to stop the backstabbing tango before that pair of egos exploded, sweeping us all away. I chose to clear my throat, a neutral but effective gesture even though it was as formal as it was bland. The two women stared at me with their fuming eyes, which almost startled me. Then Mrs. Doyle stood up.

“It has been a pleasure…”

“Elio,” I said, shaking her hand.

“I hope we can talk some other time in a much more intimate place and without interruptions, _Elio_.”

Once she had left, my mother put on her coat and left the bar. I struggled to follow her, not very sure about whether her anger was due more to the fact that I had run away from the exhibition or for having done so with Mrs. Doyle.

We crossed the parking lot accompanied only by the hollow sound of her heels. It wasn't until we reached her car, a navy blue Jeep Cherokee, that she stopped in her tracks with the keys in her hand.

“One thing is certain,” she said sternly, “we should talk more often, because if _that's_ what interests you, I don't really know who you are anymore, Elio.”

“We were just chatting.”

“Coming from her, I doubt it.”

“Please, _maman_ , she's married. Besides, I was honestly more interested in the bartender.”

“It's incredible how oblivious you can be sometimes.”

There was something else about that furtive, insignificant encounter that bothered her. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her so upset. Probably when my father tried to approach me on my tenth birthday. She’d refused and he’d threatened to go to court, assuring her that he was much more prepared on that front and wouldn’t hesitate to take everything away from her, including " _Our_ _son._ " This, of course, I’d learned by eavesdropping. She’d been so scared. The image of a particular day was etched in my memory: Mafalda and other friends in the kitchen, surrounding my mother after a call I assumed was from my father. She sat in a chair while Beth, a neighbor, tried to fan her with a piece of cardboard. It was December. I wanted to go there and find out what was going on, but they wouldn't let me see her, forcing me out while I cried that I just wanted to be with my _maman_. In spite of everything, my mother stood up to him and the scoundrel ended up with his tail between his legs, just like the first time.

“What was that about when she said that many of those who were there knew your tastes?” I asked calmly.

“Get in the car.”

The Ice Woman had become as cold as the night around us again. I sat in the passenger seat facing her; she was looking ahead with her hands glued to the wheel.

“What was she talking about?”

“I’m an art consultant, you know very well that I have many contacts.”

“And you know perfectly well that she wasn’t talking about that…”

“For God's sake, Elio. I was twenty-nine when I separated from Samuel, do you think I’ve been closed up like a wilted flower all this time?”

It was a delicate way to put it for sure, but suddenly I wasn't so convinced I wanted to have that conversation. I looked for the seat belt and fastened it, hoping that it’d be enough of a signal for her to start the engine. But she didn't.

“Vanessa Doyle became obsessed with a man, a collector, whom I was seeing a long time ago.”

“Mom—“

“We maintained a very discreet relationship for two years. I was happy, Elio.”

“Two years?” I asked, stupefied. “When did that happen? Were you ever planning to tell me about it?”

“You were only eight, what did you want me to say?”

“That you were seeing someone or that you had a friend? How should I know… What happened then?”

“That one day he just vanished. I haven't heard from him since. It’s as if he’s disappeared off the face of the Earth. And not only him, but also an important project we’d been working on.”

Her voice sounded choked, as though she couldn't get enough air.

“You've insinuated that Mrs. Doyle has been unfaithful to her husband… was it with him?”

“No,” she answered firmly. “Not him. Her interest went beyond sexual attraction. She mostly wanted to get her hands on what we were working on.”

“What project was that?”

“It doesn't matter anymore. Your question was whether she’s cheated on her husband. Yes, she has, but no one knows with whom because the John Does have been smart enough to keep their names out of the public eye. Although there’ve always been rumors. A few years ago, one of her alleged lovers was in a car accident that took his life, and that happened only a week after he was the subject of some gossip—and you, my son, sat flirting with that woman in the middle of one of her exhibitions and surrounded by hundreds of witnesses.”

I opened my mouth to deny all that evidence, but she started the car and we left the parking lot in a hurry, causing the irritation of other drivers. She was terribly distraught, that had become more than clear. Her knuckles had turned white and although she maintained a rigid, almost imperturbable posture, I could feel her frantic breathing.

“Mom, stop the car.” I tried to sound calm, but I wasn't.

“I know it was her,” she said without looking away from the road. “It had to be her.”

“Mom, please stop the car.”

“I'm taking you to your place.”

“No! Stop the fucking car!”

Finally, she pulled over to the side of the busy avenue.

“What's going on? Are you really saying that Vanessa Doyle got rid of your boyfriend or whatever that man was?”

She didn’t answer. The headlights of the other vehicles passing interlaced in a colorful dance on the wet asphalt that reflected in her blank expression.

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe that man ran away because he didn't want anything serious with you?” I went on, hardening my tone. “That _maybe_ he wasn't as interested in you as you were in him? Have you thought about that? Because it wouldn't be the first time.”

As the words came out of my mouth I wanted to be able to catch them between my fingers and make them disappear as if in an impossible magic trick. My mother turned to sink her icy eyes into mine, sparkling, full of tears.

“I'm sorry,” I said immediately.

“Get out of the car.”

“ _Maman_.” I tried to hold her hand, but she avoided contact. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, really. But what you’re implying is very serious.”

“Do you know who that woman's husband is?”

I didn't understand what that question was about at first, but then it became so obvious that I felt like a complete fool for not making the connection earlier. Vanessa Doyle, gallery owner, wife of Ronald Doyle, a name that was hardly heard in certain circles because everyone knew him best as the Irishman.

“Get out of the car, Elio,” she said again.

“ _Maman_ , please—”

“I haven't asked you for many things in this life and the little I have you’ve ignored it.” Her voice sounded numb and distant. “But I hope that for once you’ll listen to me and stay away from that woman and her family. And now, get out of my car.”

I didn't want to, I didn't want to leave her alone. Not like that. But I knew that if I insisted it’d only make things worse. So I unfastened the seat belt and got out. She stepped on the gas, speeding away.

I felt so despicable. Of all the things I could’ve held against her, I had to choose the path that hurt us both the most.

I took my phone out. I had to call her. I needed her to turn around so we could talk. But she’d refuse. I knew it… and I understood. So I looked up Grace's number, I hadn't heard from her since the day before, but something stopped me; maybe it was better not to bother her until I heard from Mahelona, if that ever happened. I chose to send her a message that said: _Don't worry about anything_. Then I put my finger over Julieta's number, but I also ruled out that possibility. She was probably at home, preparing dinner for herself and Diego, and I had no place there.

An unexpected feeling of unease began to wash over me.

I put one foot in the street and raised my hand to stop a cab.

I found Lita in one of her regular haunts on Little Island. She was insulting a man who didn’t seem interested in sexual favors even though he showed a stubborn commitment to something else. Lita pushed him away until he almost fell to the ground. When she was left alone, under the protection of a desolate lamppost, she hugged her short pink jacket that in some past decade had surely seen better days, to fight off the cold. It was easy to presume the string of blasphemies she was mumbling from the whitish breath that shot out of her mouth as she wandered around shivering. “Fucking junkies.” I heard her mutter. But when she noticed someone approaching, she corrected her hunched posture and opened her jacket to show off all she had to offer. Her face was transformed into a worn-out grimace of seduction and her first words were a compendium of trite flattery that was clearly part of a more than tired repertoire. But as soon as she recognized me, her lips unfolded in a spontaneous and genuine smile.

“Gambler! What brings you to these distant shores?”

“I’ve come to settle my debt.”

Lita wrinkled her forehead, not understanding for a moment.

“Have you had dinner?” I asked.

“I have a stale sandwich in a garbage bag but I no longer remember where I left it.”

“I invite you to dinner.”

“Oh! So today is the big day. Good thing I’m wearing my best clothes,” she said, without masking the sarcasm in her words. “Are you going to take me somewhere nice, Gambler?”

“Wherever you want.”

Lita clasped my arm.

“Come on, then, let's take advantage now that the coast is clear.”

“You’re very thoughtful,” Lita said after we’d been sitting in the cab for a while. “Where are you going to take me?”

“I don't know. Where would you like to go?”

“You're the one with the obscene bank account, surprise me.”

The cab left us very close to Central Park. Lita clung to me again as soon as we got out, as though she felt out of her element, like a puppy overwhelmed by the noise of the traffic and the glare of the neon lights.

We walked quietly until we stopped in front of the doors of one of the best-rated restaurants in the city, decorated with an intricate golden latticework.

“What do you think of this place?” I asked.

“It looks very elegant.”

“Yeah.”

While Lita was studying the facade with some discomfort, we moved aside to let a group of diners pass who were talking happily, gesticulating with that kind of lazy refinement, while they hid under the warmth of their neat coats. One of the men looked at us as though we were two marauders too enraptured by such opulence to realize that this was no place for us.

I set out to approach the man in uniform at the door but Lita had got stuck on the sidewalk.

“What's wrong?”

“I don't want to go in there.”

“Why not?”

Lita took a look at the large windows and then at the group of men and women who had just left and were walking down the street.

“I don't want them to look at me,” she said uneasy.

“Fuck them, Lita.” I offered her my hand, but she didn't move.

“Why did you invite me to dinner, Gambler?”

“Because I promised you I would.”

“No, that's not it. There’s something else, what is it?”

I put my hands in my pockets. What could I say? From the short list of places I could have gone to conceal my supine ineptitude, I had decided to go see her—perhaps because with Lita I didn't need to moderate myself. She knew exactly who I was, in every way, and didn't care. With Lita there was no judgment, no hassle. There was only acceptance and unobtrusive mutual companionship.

“I guess I needed to talk to someone,” I said, staring at the wet pavement.

I felt her pull the sleeve of my parka until she managed to hold my hand and intertwine her long, bony fingers with mine.

“Let's order something. You pay for the food and I'll pick the place,” she suggested with a smile.

And that's what we did. We supplied ourselves with an inordinate amount of greasy food, and Lita led the cab north to Harlem. There we got out and walked a couple of blocks, loaded with our dinner.

“Here,” Lita said, pointing to an abandoned building.

“What the hell is this place?”

“I lived here for a while.”

We went up several floors of a building where nothing was in an acceptable enough state for human occupancy. The cracked walls barely showed the paint that once gave them color and life. As we advanced, we left a trail of footprints on a thick mat of dust, dirt and dry leaves that hid the gnawed and uneven wood that creaked with disgust with each of our steps. Some of the ceilings had collapsed, but I noticed that in several of the dreary rooms old, muddy mattresses were lying on the floor.

“Did you live alone?”

“No, there were more people, of course.”

“And they're still here?” I asked reluctantly.

“I heard that they had been thrown out. At least the ones they found alive.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Why?”

“I don't know, I guess some of them would’ve been friends of yours.”

“Well, you're wrong.”

We arrived at the top floor and walked down a corridor to a wide, open room, illuminated by the city lights streaming in through the row of semicircular windows that lined on one of the main walls. There was no glass, so they gave way to an icy breeze that whistled breaking the sepulchral silence.

“Look! It's still there,” Lita exclaimed, pointing to a table whose legs were cut in half.

“Did you eat here?” I asked.

“No, this is where we used to prepare the heroin.”

“Fuck, Lita! You really want to have dinner here?”

“Shut up and sit down.”

Lita dragged over a metal drum and threw some pieces of wood into it that she picked up from the rubble covering almost every single surface. She then lit a piece of cardboard and dropped it inside. We lined the table with the mountain of paper napkins that Lita had stolen from the restaurant and sat down on the floor to eat.

“Look, I don't want to sound like a spoiled brat, but you could’ve picked a place a little cleaner where we wouldn't freeze to death.”

“Well, you sound exactly like a spoiled brat.”

We laughed in silence. The food had cooled, but the first bite I took on my burger tasted like glory.

“How long ago did you leave?” I asked.

“I'm not sure, I just remember when Anthony showed up and offered me this shitty job.”

“Why did you accept it?”

“Because he promised me a real bed and sex would at least be in exchange for money.”

“That Anthony… I don't think you've ever mentioned him before.”

“He’s gone.”

“Where to?”

Lita let out a slight laughter as she shoved a handful of French fries into her mouth.

“He was killed. He was found on the banks of the Hudson River, swollen like a balloon.”

“And it couldn't have been an accident?” I said, knowing that it was a vastly obtuse question.

“When you gamble with the money of someone with much more power than you, there are consequences. You should know that very well.”

“You talking about the Irishman?”

“Weren't we supposed to talk about you?”

“Was he the one who had him killed?” I insisted.

“The fuck I know, Gambler! Probably. Who cares? The fucker is dead. Although to be honest, I preferred him to Bob.”

I finished my dinner calmly but I didn't stop watching Lita. She was sitting on the floor with her legs crossed in an apparently relaxed posture, but I’d noticed how her knee had started to shake nervously.

“What do you know about him?”

“Jesus fuck, Gambler, why the interest?”

“I'm curious.”

“Bullshit.” She picked up a paper napkin and wiped her mouth. “I know what everybody knows, that he's Irish—well, actually, he was born here, the one who emigrated was his great-grandfather, but I guess calling yourself _'The American'_ doesn't sound half as intimidating—he married a rich heiress and has three children, two girls and a boy.”

Suddenly she smiled mischievously, as though she’d remembered something very funny and leaned forward to speak in a low voice.

“They say that when he got his wife pregnant for the first time he was crazy about the idea of having a boy and that he was very disappointed when the baby turned out to be a girl. So they tried again, but they had another girl. At that moment his wife didn't want any more kids, but he was obsessed with having that boy, so he got her pregnant again, it’s said he used force and that she tried to get herself an abortion. The case is that the baby was finally a boy, but the patriarch's joy vanished when a few years later they caught the apple of his eye snogging another guy. They haven't spoken to each other for years, or so people say.”

“A lovely family… have you ever had contact with him?”

“No. I don't even think I've ever seen him in person, and it's better that way. If they don't know that you exist, the chances of ending in a ditch with your eyes rolled back are pretty much reduced. So, stop asking questions and talk to me about what you're so worried about.”

The notification of a message interrupted the conversation—a missed call from Marco. Then we were startled by the sound of a slamming car door. Lita got up immediately and looked out of one of the empty window frames.

“Shit… I have to go.”

“Is it Bob?”

“What do you think? That asshole must’ve put a chip up my ass while I was sleeping.”

“Don't go. Leave this shit, Lita; take the money that you’ve saved, I’ll make room for you in my apartment.”

“Don't be ridiculous—don't move from where you are, Gambler," she said before I could get up. “I'll tell them I came to take a hit, that's better than them finding out I've been here with a guy and haven't made any money. They'd kill me… and then they'd kill you.”

She disappeared running down the stairs. I cautiously looked out of one of the windows and soon saw her being dragged by two men in the direction of a red Sedan.

I waited for a moment before deciding to leave as well, but when I reached the second floor I heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. The vaporous light from a flashlight shone on the wall near where I was, so I quickly stepped into one of the small rooms and hid in the darkness of a corner. From there, I could see the point of light moving through the darkness.

“You think that if there was someone here he would be waiting for you with all the noise you are making!” Lita shouted from downstairs.

“Make her shut the fuck up!” the man on the other side of the wall replied. “Stupid bitch…”

The seconds turned into an anxious wait until the man finally made his way back down the stairs, leaving me alone. I waited, curled into a ball, until long after I heard the car's engine getting lost in the distance.

I was not certain at what point I’d decided to drop by there, but I had already pressed the doorbell and remorse didn’t make me react quickly enough to turn around and run away before hearing the melody of sliding locks. When Mahelona opened the door, his face remained as unperturbed as that of a security guard wearied by his job. I imagined that the peephole had deprived me of the initial surprise.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said. He didn't sound as upset, for better or worse, as I would’ve expected.

“Look, I don't know about you, but frankly I think today's conversation didn't end in very encouraging terms, and it's sad that we have to end this very personal relationship by going through pointless legal channels when we could have avoided all this mess by having a peaceful conversation as the two adults that we are.”

“Perlman, have you seen what time it is?”

“Did I catch you sleeping?”

I knew I hadn’t because Mahelona was still wearing part of the attire of that morning, only much more tousled.

“I'm pretty busy. Have you changed your mind?”

“Not exactly—no, wait!” I said quickly, placing a hand on the door before he could close it.

“Perlman, what do you want?”

“Are you alone?”

Mahelona didn't answer, he just filled his chest with air as though he was on the verge of losing his patience and kicking me to the lions.

“I argued with my mom,” I said, suddenly feeling as tired as though I’d been wandering aimlessly for centuries and all the time lost had suddenly fallen on my shoulders.

Mahelona didn’t seem moved, not so much out of disdain but rather because he didn’t seem to know what to do with that information that I’d offered him for free. It was very late, indeed it was. Too late even to make a fool of myself like that, so I turned around and headed down the hall towards the stairs.

“Perlman, wait,” Mahelona said behind me. He sounded really exhausted. “How did you know which flat it was?”

“I checked the mailboxes.”

Mahelona chuckled, somewhat amused, and rubbed his face as he pondered the situation, then stepped aside and opened the door to let me in.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [mypinkcactus](http://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/)


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